


the sun is out, the day is new

by notavodkashot



Series: words are futile devices [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Because goddammit my poor idiots deserve a happy story for once, But fuck it they're gonna try, Canon-Typical Violence, Everything that went wrong in canon will somehow not go wrong this time around, Fix-It of Sorts, It Takes a Village to Raise a Child, Kids are a menace on one's sex life, M/M, Neither Nyx nor Cor know the first thing about caring for children, Parent-Child Relationship, Parenthood, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-01-10 16:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 121,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12302844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notavodkashot/pseuds/notavodkashot
Summary: Two very competent idiots, one small child. It shouldn't be too hard, right?Or Nyx and Cor adopt Prompto (and each other), while Regis and Clarus have quiet, dignified freakouts in the background.





	1. year i

**Author's Note:**

> ...I did say I was gonna do it. Unfortunately it grew too much to be a one-shot, so. Here we are.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~Shiiiip my shiiiiip.~~

* * *

_year i_

* * *

As they fell, Nyx reasoned he'd never thought he'd die like this. 

Fresh off training, full of self-righteous bloodlust and a vicious desire to see Niflheim fall, to become the wall itself, pushing out and reclaiming the land the Empire scorched with its greed. He'd had two good battles to his name, hardly anything substantial enough to build up a legend or get anything done, proper. 

Fuck that. 

He felt the magic burn in his veins, wild and nebulous, resisting the pull ferally, and pushed through until the dagger was in his hand, weighted core nearly heavy enough to break his fingers at the speed he was falling. He threw it at the ground, a foot closer with every breath he took, and then screamed as he forced himself to warp, his entire being burning as if his blood had been replaced with acid. He rolled into the fall, momentum negated by the warp, and had perhaps a second to contemplate the fact he was still alive, before he felt Drautos' body hit the ground a few yards away. 

Glauca. 

His name was Glauca. Had been. He'd burned Galahd and Tenebrae for the Empire. He'd slithered his way into Insomnia, preparing to do the same. Nyx sat up with a groan, his entire body aching in a constant scream, and spat on the broken carcass that was left, eyes gone dark with hate. 

If Drautos – Glauca, his name was Glauca – had taken Luche with him, he'd still be alive. He'd taken Nyx instead, because he really thought Nyx would turn coat if he asked nicely enough, or because he really thought he was so strong he couldn't die, or purely because he was an idiot. He'd taken him along, and when the woman shot him – Lyra, her name was Lyra Argentum, Nyx would remember her and do his best to make sure her name was not forgotten – he hadn't expected Nyx to take her side. He couldn't have known, of course, that it had been her who'd dragged his body out of the rubble, the first time he should have died, but hadn't. The King himself had shielded them from the onslaught of daemons, standing valiant above them, but it had been her hand tightly holding his, her voice gently promising everything would be alright. 

Nyx had seen her eyes grow dark and stormy, like they had when the daemons lunged at them, and he'd been too young and weak to do anything. He wasn't, anymore. He'd seen the look in her eyes and his body had moved on reflex, fueled by trust he could not even begin to explain. He'd regretted it for the split second it had taken Drautos – Glauca, Glauca, Glauca – to don the armor. Then regret had burned away into fury as he gave himself into the fight. 

Then they'd fallen off the cliff, his daggers buried deep into Glauca's chest. 

He couldn't remember what happened before, not exactly, only the feeling of her blood washing over him and the cavernous silence in his mind as he realized he was going to kill his commanding officer or die trying. Probably both. Except he was still alive, somehow. He wanted to lay down and stop existing for a bit, but the blood on him was still fresh, and there was a chance he wasn't the only survivor. He rolled back to his feet, his entire body shrieking at him to stop, and walked the six steps required to go pluck his other dagger from Glauca's half-pureed remains. 

He spat on him again. 

Nyx took a deep breath, looked up the sheer cliff face and realized he would die, if he tried to climb it. So he didn't, and only felt like he was dying, with each warp. 

* * *

Lyra wasn't there, when he finally made his way back up, but the trail of blood was unmistakable. 

Nyx ignored the pain each step caused, as he set out to follow it. 

He also ignored the fact no one could be expected to survive losing enough blood to leave that kind of trail. But if she was bleeding that hard, if she was dying, and she still kept going, it could only be for a good reason. So he followed, steps slow, one foot then the next. His daggers felt heavy with the blood drying on their blades. He refused to think about it, basking in the cool, almost rational haze of hatred, lest he gave in to the heartbreaking truth of betrayal. 

He found the cabin nearly an hour later, more of a shack than anything else. The door was open, and an arachnae was leaning in, body grotesquely bulbous as it made chirring noises at it, trying to figure out a way in. Nyx realized it was dark out, just as he threw the dagger straight into the back of her head. It wouldn't be enough, on a good day, and today had been about the worst day of all. Nyx rolled and threw his other dagger, pain and adrenaline having reached a stalemate inside his head. 

She laughed as she died, exploding into a shower of iridiscent dust. All the while, the cabin remained quiet, sunk in shadows. 

He wasn't surprised, when he stepped in and found Lyra's body thrown on the ground, an emergency flare clutched tightly in one of her hands, unlit. She'd only made it so far out of sheer stubbornness, he thought, sitting on the ground with a thud, hysterical laughter bubbling in his gut. After all, Glauca had ran her over with his sword, skewered her like she didn't even matter, when she got in the way and bought Nyx the precious two seconds he needed to warp and make a difference. 

He knew he should take the flare, crack it open and hope it would last him the entire night. 

He knew, but he sat there, instead, laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all. What would he even do now? Sure, he'd killed Glauca – and Galahd, at long last, avenged at least, if not reclaimed yet – but that also meant he'd killed Drautos. Unless he planned on dragging along his carcass to corroborate his story, no one was going to believe him. Who would? He hadn't seen it, and he'd spent two years training under the man. Twelve hours a day, and he hadn't seen shit. 

He had to go back, though. He had to try. Even if no one believed him, even if no one cared. Someone had to let them know Lyra was dead. That she'd died a hero. That she'd seen what no one else had. He was alive because of her, twice over now. Nyx buried his face in his hands and willed himself to die. 

Then, almost as a reply to his thoughts, he heard the baby cry. 

His head snapped up so sharply his spine protested loudly, and before he knew it he was scrambling over to the corner of the cabin, where the loud, angry wail was coming from. Beneath an upturned table, as if to hide him from the open door, was a small child nestled in blankets. Nyx had no real notion of how age and size correlated in children that small. All he knew was that the baby was small enough to be defenseless, and his lungs were certainly a force to be reckoned with. 

“Hey,” he whispered, leaning in to hold him, because that made babies stop crying, right? Right. “Hey, there,” he repeated, cradling the child against his chest, and sucking in a panicked breath when bright blue eyes stared up at him and reached out to grab his face. They came back bloodied. “Shh,” Nyx whispered, rocking his arms gently, as he remembered seeing his mother do, when his sister had needed soothing. “Shh, it's going to be okay.” 

He sat there, in the dark, a dead woman's blood on his face, betrayal eating at his bones, and a child sobbing in his arms. But he did not will himself to die, any longer. He had no choice on that matter anymore. 

* * *

“Yes, well, I'm winging the script here, Prom.” 

Nyx sighed as Prompto's tiny hands tugged on his braids, fussing over the rather unapettizing puree he'd made out of what few berries and nuts he'd managed to scrap together. It figured, Nyx thought gloomily, that the boy would be a picky eater. He shoved a spoonful into his mouth. 

“Mm,” he said, trying his best to keep the grimace off his face, “yummy!” 

Prompto pulled harder on a braid, as if to punish him for the lie. Nyx winced and rocked him, because he usually liked that well enough to loosen his death grip on the braids. He wondered if he was going to end up having to shave his entire head, for the sake of surviving the goddamn trip home. The thought made him snort unkindly, which only resulted in Prompto's tiny fist clenching with what Nyx was sure had to be inhuman strength, it hurt so bad. 

The thought sobered him up, however. There had been notes, tucked into the blanket: stolen files, given they were written in the blocky script Nifls liked so fucking much, that detailed a whole lot of things Nyx didn't really understand, but didn't really want to. There was also Lyra's diary, recorded in her phone. Nyx had laughed and laughed and laughed at the idea that a Crownsguard legend like her, out to spy in the name of her King, would keep her phone unlocked, until he realized the smudges on the screen were blood and he'd reached the last entry. 

_His name's Prompto. Nyx. Nyx, don't you dare let them hurt him. Don't you dare let them take him back._

He was fucked, really. Objectively. Subjectively. Obliquely. As many -ly adjectives as he could think of. But, given the fact it was dead certain they were going to court martial his ass over Drau-Glauca's death, he could move on from that and focus on the fact he had a small child under his care, and potentially crucial intelligence that, according to Lyra's recordings, the King himself had commanded her to get. 

Prompto tugged mercilessly on that braid again, face puffing up red and angry, as he preapred another of those fantastic bellows of his. 

Nyx sighed and pulled Lyra's phone out. Prompto's face deflated tentatively, before it melted into delighted giggling the moment he hit play on a random voice log, and Lyra's soft, steady voice echoed around. 

All he had to do was coax Prompto into finishing the paste, and then they could go. And then maybe Nyx could find a village or town or somewhere, and figure out how to resupply. 

Prompto pulled on the braid again, because the log ended and he didn't hit replay quick enough for his liking. 

“You're so lucky I think you're cute,” Nyx sighed wryly, and wasn't even surprised when Prompto puked lunch all over his shirt. 

* * *

Three months in, Nyx almost had the hang of it. 

He'd nicked a map out of that first town he'd found, all the way back when he had been almost as dead inside as outside. He'd traced a route based on supplies and the frankly obscenely slow pace Prompto's presence demanded. Every single town they'd reached was creepily, scarily empty: houses left wide open, with all the nice stuff still where its owners had last used it. Nyx knew what a town looked like, when its inhabitants realized they had to run or die, and this wasn't it. The people in these places, they hadn't left, they'd just simply vanished. He wasn't in the mood to figure out why, though, so he didn't linger. 

And it worked to his advantage, anyway, because he was still dead broke and while Prompto was a frustratingly fussy eater, he was also a bottomless pit once he found something he liked eating. 

If Nyx never had to eat applesauce ever again in his life, it'd be too soon. 

“Ven!” Prompto called out, tiny fingers clenching on Nyx's braids with gusto. “Ven! Ven! Ven!” 

Nyx smiled wryly, looking over at the faintly glowing runes in the distance. 

“Good job, Prom,” he said, trying to dislodge the punishing grip off his hair, more out of habit than any real hope of success, at this point. “Haven, yeah. You know what means, little man?” 

“Food!” The boy laughed in delight, punctuating each guffaw with a sharp pull of the braid. 

At least, Nyx thought wryly, one of them was having fun. 

* * *

The red giant woke him up. 

Well, to be more specific, the sound of the red giant dying what he could only hope was a painful, horrific death was what woke him up. Nyx was aware it was probably not very good that both him and Prompto had grown used to the sound of daemons roaming around in the night, but considering the fact they've been sleeping in havens since that first fateful night in the shack? Well, it was to be expected. Nyx could sleep through a red giant's usual huffing and puffing as it circled around the haven, giant, flaming sword casting a mockery of light on them as they slep close to the fire at the heart of the glowing runes. 

But red giants made very distinct sounds, when they died, and Nyx startled awake as the bloodcurdling shriek echoed in the dark. He hushed Prompto, pulling the boy against his chest as he summoned a dagger to his hand, eyes trained in the direction the scream had come from. It was followed by the sound of more daemons dying, and the occasional burst of reddish glow that signaled them melting into dust. Whatever was killing them was making a straight line for the haven, Nyx noted, his mouth dry and his hand gripping the dagger's handle as tightly as he could. 

Cor the Immortal walked out of the treeline, some fifteen minutes later, expression stern. 

Nyx blinked at him, just as Cor blinked back. 

“The _fuck_ are you doing here?” Cor asked eloquently, frowning at him as if personally irritated by his existence, which he probably was. 

Nyx gave up pretenses and laughed, slumping back on the ground. Prompto made huffy, sucking noises, and snuggled into his chest, clearly intent on going back to sleep. 

* * *

Nyx realized Prompto's weight was missing before he finished waking up. He had a dagger in each hand and a murderous, wild look on his face, by the time he'd rolled onto his feet. He found Cor sitting across the fire, Prompto sprawled shamelessly on his lap, snoring as loud as his tiny body could manage. 

“At ease, Ulric,” Cor told him, arching one eyebrow as Nyx shuddered out a breath. 

“Yes, sir,” he said, sitting down gingerly, “sorry, sir.” 

Cor shrugged, completely unruffled by the fact he had a small child drooling a spectacular spot on his thigh. 

“Grab a bowl,” Cor told him, nodding at the small pot of oatmeal sitting by the fire, “and tell me what's going on.” 

Nyx did, every last, sordid bit of it, in between swallowing spoonfuls of the surprisingly sweet goop. Prompto woke up, halfway through, and began to fuss and kick, until Nyx chuckled and walked over to save the dreaded Immortal from the claws of a very angry toddler who wanted a cuddle and to tug on Nyx's braids until he felt better. 

“Lyra Argentum was one of the Crownsguard's finest, she will be missed.” Cor told him, after he'd finished his defriefing, frowning as Nyx ran his hand through Prompto's hair gently. “Thank you for avenging her. The duty should have been mine. As for Drautos-” 

“Glauca,” Nyx interrupted, voice gone frigid with spite. “His name was Glauca.” 

Cor thinned his lips, eyes looking right through him. 

“Glauca's treachery has been uncovered, nonetheless. Without him at the center to keep the wheels spinning, someone invariably slipped off.” He frowned. “The Kingsglaive was his idea, and for all his Majesty likes it, he is unsure of what to do with it, in the face of Drau-Glauca's deception.” 

“They didn't know,” Nyx whispered, running a finger down Prompto's face. “We should have, fuck. We should have known, but we didn't. They didn't.” 

“No, they didn't,” Cor agreed quietly, and then sighed, as if he'd just made a rather heavy choice. “There was... something of a riot, when it first came out. It required solid proof to sway your comrades to even begin considering that they'd been deceived.” Cor licked his lips. “They proved equally stubborn in their faith of you, and we had little to no proof to offer in that regard. The King declared you dead to put an end to the fighting, but he will be glad to see you again.” 

“Well,” Nyx said after a long silence, thoughts and feelings clawing at his throat, that he was sure he wasn't meant to show to the Immortal of all people. He laughed as best he could, even though it was still three quarters a scream. “At least I can stop worrying about all those bills I haven't paid.” 

Cor looked at him oddly, like he wasn't sure what to make of that remark. Nyx shrugged. 

“What's going to happen to Prompto?” He asked, instead, and in his head he heard his sister scream over and over again. 

“I don't know,” Cor replied quietly, eyes fixed on the sleeping child and the black bar code on his wrist. “It's... it will be the King's decision, in the end.” 

* * *

Cor had marched into Niflheim to recover Lyra, as it turned out, but he'd marched alone and on no one's orders but his own. Thus, he had little more in the way of provisions than Nyx himself had scavanged so far, and he was certainly not prepared to travel with a child across imperial wilderness. They moved slowly, for all Nyx did his best to keep up with him, and it was another two months before they reached the borders into Cleigne. 

“So,” Nyx said, as they rested on a haven lodged high in the mountains pass, overlooking the plains. “Stealing from abandoned, creepy Nifly villages is all cool with me, but I dearly hope you've got some cash you can lend me. 'Cause I'm not really up for pulling that kind of shit so close to home.” 

Cor shot him an amused look from where he'd been sitting by the fire, running a whetstone along the length of his sword. Prompto was sitting somewhere between them, beating his hands into a bowl of porridge – Nyx didn't know what the kid was going on about, his share had been delicious, as had been pretty much anything Cor had thrown together – in a fit of tantrum. It wouldn't last, they knew, because the boy was a bottomless pit, and smart like the devil, too. Once he figured out he wasn't getting what he wanted, he'd eat the bowl clean and then scowl mightily at everything until Nyx picked him up again and he could go back to his favorite pastime of pulling on his braids. 

“We'll figure something out,” he deadpanned, giving Nyx one of those weird, pointy looks of his that made the entirety of Nyx twitch inside out. “You're resourceful, after all.” 

“You say that,” Nyx muttered, frowning, “but the smile is not reassuring.” 

“I don't smile,” Cor replied, one eyebrow arched, “haven't you heard? It's illegal.” 

Nyx had heard that one, matter of fact. People said a lot of things, about Cor the Immortal, and most of them, Nyx knew now were quite a load of bullshit. But then, Cor really was a literal warrior from legend, deadly with a sword and trusted unconditionally by the King. Nyx had never really known the man, merely seen him glide along the corridors of the Citadel, from time to time, but everyone in Lucis knew _of_ him. 

After months of near constant company, though, Nyx felt quite prepared to challenge most of that common wisdom. Cor was not, in fact, an emotionless, ruthless killing machine. He was quiet and thoughtful, often sinking into silence for hours as they walked across the wilds. He was also impulsive and at times rash, particularly in the heat of battle, and Nyx only suspected the depth of emotion running rampant beneath his veneer of contolled, cool calm. His sense of humor was dry and morbid to be borderline irreverent, but it was very much a thing that existed, and Nyx had been subject to it, more than once. Above all, Prompto liked him, and that meant Nyx's braids got the occasional respite, since Cor seemed to return the sentiment and didn't really fuss too much, about carrying the boy every now and then. If he were to be completely honest with himself, he would have to admit that Cor – not the Immortal, just Cor, with his crooked not-smile and his penchant for sweet things – was someone he wouldn't be entirely opposed to call a friend. 

“Yeah, so you smile with _your eyes_ ,” Nyx retorted, wrinkling his nose at him. “Which is ten times worse, and should _also_ be illegal.” 

Cor proceeded to demonstrate he was also quite capable of laughing with his eyes alone, then, and Nyx made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. 

* * *

“Shit,” Nyx whispered, “I didn't know they came that big.” 

In the field, a large, feral-looking beheamoth the size of Nyx's appartment building devoured a fully grown garulessa in two bites. Nyx reconsidered his reluctance to leave Prompto behind, under the care of the woman who'd hired them in the first place. 

“They can be bigger, actually,” Cor replied indolently, and didn't give Nyx enough time to realize that had been a dick joke, before he leaped out of hiding and started running head first into the beast. 

Nyx snorted, closed his eyes, and then threw a dagger with a sigh. They were apparently going to hunt their way back into Insomnia. Which would be fine, really, if it were only the two of them, but the whole point of the exercise was that Prompto was there, and that meant a lot more stuff they needed to buy, which meant a lot more hunts to take. He didn't entirely complain, though, just enough to let Cor know he wasn't amused about the matter, mostly because hunts meant fights, which meant he was fighting side by side with someone who was not only skilled and powerful, but also halfway as crazy and reckless as he was. 

It was fun, was the thing, and Nyx knew it wasn't meant to be, but there was something deeply satisfying in standing next to Cor, panting like his lungs were burning, and watching something monstrous and impossibly dangerous wheeze out its last at their feet. 

It was also kind of hot, too, but Cor had already seen him with a small child chewing and pulling at his braids, so it wasn't like he could make a very good impression in that regard. Maybe later, he told himself, whenever Cor bared his teeth at him after a particularly good fight, after everything sorted itself out, he'd offer to buy the man a drink. Maybe. He still wasn't entirely sure he wasn't walking straight into a court martial of some sort. 

“You did that on purpose,” Nyx groused irritably after the beast was dead and they were both covered in blood. 

Because Cor was an asshole and a show off, and he delighted in strikes that ended in showers of blood, always. 

“Absolutely,” Cor deadpanned, flicking his sword in a quick, sharp motion that somehow got the blood off it near instantly. “Blood red brings out your eyes so nicely.” 

“All due respect, sir,” Nyx deadpanned back, eyes half lidded and mouth pulled sideways into a frown, “fuck you, sir. Muchly.” He glowered as Cor snorted. “ _Sir._ ” 

“If you were only so lucky,” Cor mused dispassionately, offering him a half shrug for his trouble. 

They got forty thousand gil for their trouble and Nyx spent a tenth of that in getting well and truly drunk that night. He woke up with a hell of a hangover, Prompto tying his braids into knots and Cor Leonis sitting by his bed, holding out a cup of coffee like a version of a benevolent god. 

“I hope you like chocobos,” he said, the absolute, miserable shithead, before Nyx could finish tasting the caffeine, “Ezma's got us a discount if we take the long way down to Galdin and drop off some letters in Caem.” 

“Fuck it,” Nyx said, forcing the laugh until it slid naturally off his tongue. “It means Prom gets to see the ocean. Every kid should, at some point.” 

Cor did that not-smile thing of his again, the one Nyx was still too hungover to not ignore, so Nyx dropped Prompto into his lap and went to take a very long, very cold shower. 

Court martial couldn't come soon enough. 

* * *

It was another month and a half to Galdin, and three more hunts that involved very large, very angry beasts even the local hunters hesitated to consider. 

Prompto was well versed in walking by then, and he could, on occasion, be coaxed to drop entire sentences instead of merely whining, testy sounds. Nyx almost never snarled on reflex, when the boy wasn't within sight the moment he woke up. Almost. 

Galdin meant people, though. People made Prompto fussy and scared, and Nyx spent most of the time trying to pry Prompto off his person, as the boy did his best to hide inside his jacket at every chance he got. Cor thought it was amusing. Nyx forgave him the sin of being an asshole, because so close to home, he could in fact exert some level of influence. Thus the last leg of the journey involved Cor driving them back across the various checkpoints, while Nyx sat in the back, keeping Prompto entertained. They crossed the wall two days later, and suddenly the enormity of everything that had happened in the past eight months began to settle in. 

“Look sharp,” Cor murmured, as he headed straight for the Citadel. “You need to make an impression.” 

Nyx supposed he was right. He felt terribly, inescapably tired all of a sudden, and the steps up the Citadel seemed almost like an insurmountable task when they finally arrived. He forced himself to climb them, anyway. He didn't know what he looked like, clothes worn and dirty from the road, and a small blond menace of a child clinging stubbornly to his neck. He supposed that would count for an impression, alright, though he wasn't entirely sure it'd be a good one. Cor glided down the corridors with that elegant, feral grace of his, causing people to move aside the moment they realized he was headed in their direction. 

“Cor,” the King said, standing up as they entered into the throne room without waiting for anyone to announce them. 

The people meant to announce them, in fact, trailed after them, whispering in frantic, panicked tones. Nyx held onto Prompto and followed Cor, step by step, as close he could without actually crowding the man. 

“Regis,” Cor replied, in the same toneless, careless voice of his, as he came to a stop before the throne and folded his arms over his chest. “Lyra's dead,” he added unceremoniously, frowning before he nodded at Nyx. “But I found you a dead hero. Meet the man who did us the favor of putting Glauca down, for good, and took it upon himself to complete Lyra's job for her.” 

“Nyx Ulric,” the King said, pinning him down in place with his eyes. 

Nyx offered his best smile and bowed as best he could, with Prompto clinging to him for his dear life. 

“Your Majesty.” 

“Cor,” the King said a little more forcefully, frowning. “Did you just bring this poor man in here, straight from the road?” 

Cor shrugged. 

“Sooner it's all sorted out, sooner he gets to rest,” he replied, and Nyx fought the urge to yell at him, mostly because he was suddenly, abruptly reminded that was not allowed. “Got the kid to deal with, too.” 

If anyone noticed Nyx's grip on Prompto got a little tighter at that, no one said anything about it. 

“ _Cor,_ ” the King said again, voice dripping with frustrated fondness that only made Cor shrug again. 

* * *

“So that was a thing,” Nyx muttered, elbows on the table and head held in his hands. “That happened.” 

It was poor manners, but he felt entitled. He looked across the table to study Cor as he carefully flaked the fish in his plate into tiny pieces with a fork, before putting it on Prompto's hand. 

“Eat,” Cor commanded, though by Nyx's best estimations, all Prompto was going to accomplish was ruining his shirt. 

Well, the shirt was already pretty fucking ruined, after all, what with the holes and the dirt and the occasional bloodstain, so there was that. Prompto nonetheless made an attempt to obey, because it was Cor's best commanding voice and he was a little traitorous brat who never ever did as Nyx said, no matter what tone of voice _he_ used. Cor leaned forward to rest his own elbow on the table, which allowed Prompto better access to create a mess of the plate, and leaned in to rest his chin on his hand. 

They were causing a scene, of course. After all, Nyx was a dead man and Cor was the Immortal, and they both looked like they had spent about as long as they had, out there beyond the wall. And then there was Prompto, all falsely cherubic features, sitting in the Immortal's lap like he belonged there. Nyx felt the rumors spreading by the second, but he couldn't quite complain. Cor was picking up the tab, anyway; if he cared about rumors, he could have chosen not to eat in the officer's canteen. 

“Thanks,” Nyx said, lips twitching. “For sticking up for me.” 

“Ulric, if I thought you were a traitor, you would be dead,” Cor deadpanned at him, staring at him with those piercing eyes of his that a more learned man than Nyx would surely be able to wax poetic about. “I wouldn't have spent five months trekking in the wilderness just to double check if the King was fine with it.” He scoffed. “When I kill someone, Regis knows better than to question if they deserved it. It's a given they did.” 

Nyx chuckled. 

“I figured, yeah,” he shrugged. “I meant more... you know,” he added, nodding over to Prompto, who had by then eaten three bites of fish and managed to convert the entire plate into a battlefield. Nyx's voice softened considerably. “You stood up for me, about Prom.” 

Cor shrugged gently enough as to not disturb Prompto from his perch. 

“You did three services to Regis, out there, none of which you were bound to do,” he replied, though Nyx noticed he would not look at him in the eye. He wondered if he'd somehow managed to embarrass the greatest warrior Lucis had ever known. “Least _he_ can do is not make you fucking miserable for the rest of your life. You're attached to the kid,” he added, as if he weren't the one holding him and nudging him to eat, right that moment. “And worse, he's attached to you.” 

“You still didn't have to,” Nyx insisted, smiling when Cor's eyes flicked up to meet his. “So shove off and accept my thanks already.” 

Cor shrugged at him and changed the topic instead. 

“What are you going to do now?” 

Nyx sighed deeply. 

“Figure out how to un-dead myself, I guess,” he explained, snorting. “Figure out where to stay and get a hold of a good babysitter, those are the first big priorities, I think. Figure out if I still have a job, too.” 

“You do,” Cor pointed out, not quite reassuringly, because he'd need to actually emote for that. “Or you will, anyway. Clarus had that look on his face. I think he likes you.” 

“You don't need to sound surprised,” Nyx teased as he watched Prompto line up his peas into neat battallion lines, “I'm extremely likable.” 

“Yeah,” Cor agreed easily, and something deep beneath the crust of emotional exhaustion in Nyx's gut twitched in response. “But Clarus is generally an asshole.” 

“And we're back to you and reassuring not being within a nautic mile of each other,” Nyx replied dryly, shaking his head. 

The silence lingered for a moment, comfortable. 

“You can stay with me, while you get yourself back on your feet,” Cor said, watching Prompto carefully and methodically mash his peas, one at the time. “If you want.” 

“You sure?” Nyx asked carefully, rather than blurting out something stupid. 

Cor shrugged. 

“I put up with you five months, Ulric, I can put up with you a few days more.” 

And that, for the moment, was that. 

* * *


	2. year ii

* * *

_year ii_

* * *

He was awake the moment he felt the bed shift, but he took another moment to consider if he wanted – or needed – to be awake yet. 

“I wouldn't do that, if I were you.” 

Cor opened an eye and fixed it on the small hand inches away from one of his nostrils. The owner of said finger pouted impressively at him. Cor narrowed his eye minutely. Prompto puffed up his cheeks, face flushed with indignation that Cor would have the nerve to not let him shove his fingers anywhere he liked into his person. Cor shrugged at him and rolled around, until his back was to the edge of the bed. Prompto puffed a breath, like a miniature Molokujata calf. He was not even surprised when the boy clawed his way up his back and then shuffled about with single-minded determination, until he was snuggled up against Cor's chest. 

“Prompto,” Cor said, more out of habit than any real hope it'd have any effect whatsoever. 

“'sleep,” the boy mumbled, hiding under his arm. 

Cor sighed and listened for sounds of Nyx moving around the apartment, instead. The occasional swearing under his breath was amusing, if nothing else. 

The arrangement – the original one, anyway – had been meant for a few days, weeks at most. Cor had expected Nyx to put his life back in order and then gracefully bow out of his. That had been Nyx's intention, as well. The problem was that he had been legally _dead_ , for months. And he continued to be, months after that. The sheer amount of paperwork the man had filed so far had made Cor look a sliver more appreciatively to that ridiculous nickname Regis had given him, because at least it meant that whenever he up and vanished for months, no one went and declared him dead. 

There were a lot of things you couldn't do, if you were dead. You couldn't get paid, you couldn't get a lease, you couldn't legally adopt a child. Cor sympathized with Nyx's frustration, despite his amusement at it, if nothing else because Nyx was a stubborn bastard determined to game the system to the bitter end. It wasn't like Cor's finances couldn't take the hit, anyway, he'd been living on the bare minimum for twenty years, even if he was one of the best paid men in Insomnia. Convincing Nyx to just take the money and figure out shit later had not been fun, but he hadn't stood a chance against Monica. Cor liked Monica: a solid head on her shoulders, an impressive collection of unimpressed deadpan expressions to get her point across and an impeccable set of work ethics. Monica had done in two days what Cor hadn't been able to, in two weeks: wield a massive guilt trip over Prompto's entire existence until Nyx had agreed to sign the paperwork that gave him free reign of all Cor's finances, looking the entire time like he'd sucked on something sour. 

They were over the worst of it, anyway. They had a halfway functional routine, and their lives fit around each other fairly comfortably. Clarus had been an absolute terror and convinced Regis to shove the entire unwieldy, disorganized mess that was the Kingsglaive in the aftermath of Glauca's betrayal into Nyx's hands, much like he'd done with Cor and the Crowsguard a decade prior. So at least Nyx had something to entertain himself when he got tired of phone calls that got him nowhere. His commanding style was diametrically opposed to Cor's – Cor prefered to give people clear expectatives about their results and let them figure out the rest on their own, rather than hold their hands every step of the way – but it served him well for a frontline battle unit. It wouldn't be long before they were ready to be deployed again. 

“Hey,” Nyx said, dragging Cor out of his thoughts to find him leaning on the doorway, wry expression on his face. “I see someone's sought political asylum,” he added, nodding to the blond head buried against Cor's side. 

“Apparently,” Cor replied, lips twitching a sliver when he realized Nyx had a mug of coffee in his hands. “Bribery?” 

“Counter offer, to release this particular war criminal into my custody,” Nyx explained, eyes bright as he padded over to place the mug in Cor's hand. “Pelna's taking him and his kids to the zoo today. Someone was very excited at the prospect up until the dreaded bath came up.” 

“The horror,” Cor deadpanned, taking a sip. It was just sweet enough to make his lips twitch. He wasn't particularly upset that Nyx noticed, when it made him grin like he'd accomplished something. “Are you heading back into the Citadel after?” 

“Yeah,” Nyx sighed, “got some stuff to look over with Lord Amicitia about the drill schedules.” 

“If you called him Clarus, he'd be less stubborn,” Cor suggested, eyebrows arched. 

Nyx snorted. 

“And admit defeat?” He arched an eyebrow. “The Kingsglaive never surrenders, sir.” 

Cor shrugged and took another sip of his coffee. Then he put it on the bedside table, and sat up properly, ignoring Prompto's pitiful whining as he disturbed his perch. The boy made tiny miserable sounds as Cor picked him up and passed him onto Nyx's waiting hands. 

“Off you go then,” he said, smirking as one of Prompto's hands reached out to grab onto a braid automatically. Nyx's long suffering expression was priceless every time. “Let me know when you're ready to go, I'll drive.” 

“Do you actually have anything to do today?” Nyx teased, lips pulled into a smirk, “or are you just gonna go for the sake of putting the fear of you in them?” 

“Yes,” Cor deadpanned. 

Nyx's laughter echoed as he walked away. 

* * *

“Cor,” Clarus called, voice deceptively cheery as he entered the room. “There you are.” 

Cor, who'd been sitting behind his desk reading intel reports for the past four hours, gave Clarus a suitably suspicious, narrowed-eye look. He was walking leisurely, so clearly this was not exactly a matter of utmost importance. Quite likely, Cor thought irritably, this was just the King using his Shield to sniff out gossip, because Regis Lucis Caelum was forever fucking thirteen years old, apparently. And Clarus Amicitia had spent twenty years not curing him of that delusion. 

“Oh no,” he replied, voice deadpan, shifting in his chair to get comfortable, since given the glint in Clarus' eye, this was going to take a while. “You've found me.” 

Clarus sighed. 

“Can we please have a normal conversation, for once in our lives?” He asked, one eyebrow arched. 

Cor shrugged. 

“Can we?” 

“Obviously not,” Clarus muttered with exasperation, rolling his eyes at him. “The King would like a status report in your current charges.” 

Cor's expression turned decidedly unamused. 

“You mean Regis is bored and wants to meddle,” he snorted, “seeing as I don't have any current _charges_.” 

“Nyx Ulric is still living under your roof,” Clarus pointed out, one eyebrow arched tauntingly. “And so is young Prompto.” 

“Nyx Ulric is still legally dead, despite his best attempts to fix it,” Cor corrected. He frowned. “Has he given cause for the King's concern?” Clarus pursed his lips and Cor's eyes narrowed. “Clarus.” 

“None,” he admitted with a sigh. “Regis is fond of the boy and his work so far has been more than satisfactory. He's just... curious.” 

“Curious,” Cor deadpanned, forcing himself not to rub his forehead, as it'd give away the headache forming there. 

“Young Prompto seems to be the same age as the Prince,” Clarus pointed out, shrugging. “I don't doubt Regis would have reacted the same way, to the Crownsguard investigation on the Empire's mass produced infantry, but. I imagine Noctis' existence amplified the effect.” 

Cor sighed, leaning back on his chair. There was nothing... objectively wrong, with Prompto. He was a perfectly healthy two year old child. The battery of tests every four months confirmed it, as did most of Cor's gut instinct. But Lyra's intel had been more than a little concerning. There were depths the Empire was willing to sink to, that they hadn't thought possible before. Cor remembered the wasteland of abandoned, empty villages and towns, and felt bile rise in his throat. 

“So what,” Cor asked, lips pulled back into the impression of a snarl, “he wants to gawk at the kid and see what's different from his own son?” He snorted. “The hair, for starters, I'd reckon.” 

“Cor.” 

Cor's glare remained firmly in place. 

“He's a child, Clarus,” he said, in his best recalcitrant tone. “He's not a circus attraction. My living room, I'll grant you, tends to be after he's done with it. But not him.” 

“Not all of Regis' fits of curiosity end up being terrible, you realize,” Clarus snorted, trying – and failing – to look down at Cor with fatherly disapproval. It hadn't worked out when Cor was fourteen, and it wasn't going to work now, when he was closer to thirty than twenty. 

“Of course not,” Cor agreed, one eyebrow arched, “just the ones I happen to be involved in.” Clarus looked down at him, leaving behind paternal disappointment, and instead brandishing his very unique take on deeply hurt. After a minute or so, Cor bared his teeth and started to grind them. “Fine, but only if Ulric agrees to it.” 

* * *

“You're so drunk,” Nyx said, voice somewhere between wonder and amusement. “Holy shit.” 

He'd taken a lot better to Regis' visit than Cor had, but then Nyx still had something of a hero-worship shine just for the King, and thus he was blissfully blind to the fact Regis was basically an asshole. All of Cor's friends were assholes, really, that was the first requirement to _be_ friends. As such Nyx had actually tried to make a good impression while Cor had drank slowly and steadily, to better show his disapproval of the whole thing. 

“I'm certainly not,” Cor replied in a murmur, vowels running into each other in his mouth as he sat back on the couch with a sprawl, and inwardly wondered if it had always been so nice and soft to sink into. 

He nonetheless graciously relinquished his hold on Prompto when Nyx took him. Cor watched him go and reconsidered his answer when his first attempt to stand up resulted in nothing beyond sliding two inches down the couch. Ah. Well. He scowled somewhat, and determined he was still not drunk. This, clearly, was going to be a Regis-induced hangover, and it was an entirely different beast all together. 

So there. 

“C'mon,” Nyx said, sometime later, standing in front of him. “Your spine will thank you for not sleeping like that.” 

Cor made a rumbling noise in the back of his throat, which was meant to convey he was perfectly fine, and also fuck you, Ulric, he was not old enough for his spine to have any say about anything he did. Nyx, because he was an irritatingly considerate moron who refused to develop keen mind reading powers, grabbed his arms by the elbows and hauled him up without a second thought. Cor hissed deep in his chest, profoundly offended about the whole thing, more so when Nyx threw one of his arms around his shoulders and wrapped one of his around Cor's waist, pulling him flush up against him. 

“Just so you know,” he added, “I kinda hate you for drinking yourself stupid and leaving me to handle the King and Lord Amicitia on my own, there.” 

Cor mumbled his rational, reasonable reasons for doing precisely that into Nyx's neck. Nyx froze mid-step and shivered all the way down to his feet. Cor blinked, licked his lips – licked Nyx's neck in the process – and then blew on his neck, just to test a sudden, taunting theory. Nyx shuddered again. Cor leaned on him, close enough to hear the words barely making their way out of Nyx's throat – _he's drunk, it's cool, he's just drunk, oh fuck_ – and _grinned._

It took Nyx nearly twenty minutes to shuffle his way into his bedroom and Cor refused to help every step of the way. 

“You're like, the _weirdest_ kind of drunk,” Nyx muttered as he dropped him onto his bed. 

Cor shrugged. The last thing he remembered clearly was Nyx shuffling out of the room as fast as he could without actually running away, the moment Cor started undressing. 

Idiot. 

* * *

“The only time I allow myself to be sober before the King and his Shield,” Cor explained again, with actual words this time around, as he flipped pancakes out into a plate, “is when they're telling me about the next dumb idiot I'm going to kill for them.” 

Nyx sat on the counter, cup of coffee – _not_ sweetened to the point of being caffeinated syrup – in his hand and a bemused expression on his face. 

“I thought you were friends with them,” he ventured, cautiously. 

“I am,” Cor replied, shrugging. He frowned at the skillet in lieu of frowning at Nyx. “It's complicated.” 

“No kidding,” Nyx snorted. The next four pancakes went by in surprisingly comfortable silence, before Nyx sighed loudly and shrugged. “But hey, at least they offered to help with my undeadening.” 

Cor looked up so Nyx would feel the full brunt of his arched eyebrow. 

“Your _undeadening_.” 

“Seeing as there's no record of anyone else being declared legally dead and then popping back up alive later, which I find really fucking dubious to be honest, I get to name the process.” 

“Undeadening,” Cor insisted, with a look that implied the only dubious thing about the situation was Nyx's name choice for it. 

Nyx shrugged. 

“It sounds a lot more fun than it actually is,” he pointed out, with a little smirk, “which I'd say is a dead ringer for proper legalese.” He chuckled. “Anyway, since you spent most of last night getting drunk in a corner, you don't get to say shit about it.” 

“I'm not drunk now,” Cor pointed out softly, as he turned off the stove. 

“You're also not hangover,” Nyx agreed, snorting. “Which is frankly unfair and a little worrisome.” 

“Nyx,” Cor said quietly, watching with amusement as the man seized up on reflex. Year and a half into their... since they knew each other, and Cor had never used his name before. He arched an eyebrow at him. “I'm not drunk now,” Cor repeated, meaningfully. 

He watched the wheels turn and click into place. He'd been fairly certain of the response he'd get, which was the only reason he'd bring attention to it in the first place. He still hadn't expected the way Nyx's eyes went dark when his thoughts stumbled upon Cor's meaning. Cor licked his lips at the shiver that ran down his spine. 

“Oh, you bastard,” Nyx muttered as he slid off the counter, crowding in on him, one hand reaching out to sink his fingers into his hair. “You absolute, fucking _bastard_.” 

Cor's back hit the wall with a satisfying thud. Not that he'd really paid it much mind, with Nyx Ulric kissing him like he was going to devour him whole in the process. He wrapped his arms around his shoulders, hands fisted around the braids and the strands of loose, damp hair. Nyx pressed the rough moan straight into his mouth and Cor felt himself be raised two very crucial inches up the wall. 

“You've got twenty minutes,” he muttered, licking his lips as he tilted his throat up and let Nyx bury his teeth there. Prompto was surprisingly punctual, when it came to waking up for breakfast, particularly if it was Cor who'd made it. “Tops.” 

His breathing hitched when Nyx dropped to his knees, Cor's legs hooked on his shoulders. 

“I can do with ten,” he growled darkly, low and feral, like a taunt that didn't really feel like one. 

Cor came in five, shout muffled behind his own hand, back arched off the wall and Nyx Ulric swallowing tortuously around him. It was the worst best thing he'd ever done. Nyx looked up at him like a starving man, licking his lips and smirking when Cor shuddered despite his best intentions. He pulled back, rather than fall in, though. 

“You wanna make yourself presentable about just now,” he mused, whiping his mouth with a thumb at the same time they heard Prompto's feet land on the floor of the room he shared with Nyx. “Just saying.” 

Then he went out there and casually led Prompto to the bathroom, for another lesson on the importance of brushing his teeth. 

Cor didn't laugh, but only just. 

* * *

“I think it's a terrible idea,” Nyx said, and then frowned. “Okay, no, I think it's an excellent idea. Well, not excellent, because you're an asshole and I'm worse. But.” He snorted. “Can I start over?” 

They were sitting in a bench at the park, watching as Prompto played in a sandbox a few yards away. They got a few looks from a couple other parents watching their own children play, but that was part and parcel of it by then. 

“By all means,” Cor murmured with a snort, “you're bound to get it right eventually.” 

“Fuck off,” Nyx replied automatically, then rolled his eyes. “I want to, okay? I do. Just in case I didn't make it perfectly clear earlier.” 

Cor licked his lips. 

“You did.” 

“I've been wanting to kiss your fucking jerkass mouth and nail you into the nearest wall for months,” Nyx admitted, shrugging as he leaned his elbows on his thighs, back bowing as he watched Prompto methodically flatten the half-built castle with a frown. “So hey, good to know it's not one sided.” 

Cor hummed in the back of his throat. 

“But?” He said, when Nyx kept on staring at Prompto and failed to continue. 

“But my life is still shit right now,” Nyx sighed. “I'm still crashing in your guest room, I ain't got a penny to my name yet and I still haven't been able to undead myself enough to start on the actual adoption interviews.” When Cor merely stared at him, Nyx breathed out a laugh. “Look, I know you don't see it like that, but I don't want to feel like a fucking kept _pet_. I'll end up hating you for it, and not in the fun way, either.” 

Cor made a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat. 

“And after?” 

Nyx licked his lips. 

“After what?” 

Cor shrugged. 

“After you get your shit together?” 

“If you're still into it?” Nyx laughed, a tiny self-deprecating noise that rubbed Cor entirely the wrong way. “Sure.” 

Cor sighed. 

“They do say patience is a virtue, I suppose.” 

Nyx was looking at him oddly, like he hadn't expected that reply at all. Cor shrugged and refused to acknowledge it all together, until Nyx was laughing, face buried in his hands. 

* * *

“No, no, I don't want to be transf- _oh for fuck's sake_.” 

Nyx glared at the phone in disdain, and then shifted the look over to Cor, when he snorted not too subtly about it. Cor offered a one-shoulder shrug in reply, and went back to study the veritable fleet of ducks Prompto had stamped on the paper taped carefully on top of the table. He honestly didn't care about the table – or the walls or the appartment in general, to be quite honest, he hadn't even personally bought the things in it, so it wasn't like he was attached to any of it – but Nyx was a fastidious creature and he always made sure that whatever new, ridiculous idea he got, to keep Prompto entertained, it would have no lasting impact. 

“Needs some blue,” he muttered, sipping on his coffee, “I reckon.” 

Prompto looked at him with those wide, wide eyes of his that were the absolute damnation of the entirety of the Kingsglaive and offered one of the carrot stamps Nyx had carved for this particular exercise. Cor arched an eyebrow when Prompto refused to speak and merely shook the carrot at him, clearly expecting a reaction. 

“You do realize you're going to have to start talking at some point. Consistently, I mean.” Prompto pinched his mouth shut and let his eyes widen comically, in prelude of a tantrum. One Ulric tantrum was more than enough for Cor most mornings, however, so he sighed and grabbed the stamp like it was made of glass. “Oh, very well,” he snorted, and made a show to dip it in the little plate full of blue paint, before pressing it into a corner of the of the paper. “There.” 

Prompto broke down into delighted giggles, approximately around the same time Nyx broke down sobbing into into the couch. 

“No, I don't want to be _transfered_ ,” he whined miserably, voice muffled into the cushions. “No, I don't want to change my life insurance. No, I don't want to hear about the new mortage packages. I just want to know if you received the paperwork I sent. That's all, Clarissa. I'm sure you're a lovely person, honestly. I just want you to open that email inbox and tell me if you see my attachment got through. You don't have to do anything, I swear. I've been assured, so long as the attachment goes through, the appropriate department will look into it. So please--”

Cor took another sip of coffee, sighed deeply, and stamped another blue duck into the paper. 

“ _What do you mean that inbox is not monitored?_ ” 

* * *

“That went well,” Cor mused, absently rocking a sleeping Prompto in his arms. 

Nyx looked up from the mess of tiny, plastic blocks he was trying to gather into it's original container and squinted at him like he'd grown a second head. 

“I'm sorry, were you in a different room than I was?” He growled, not particularly amused. 

With the King's blessing – dubious, as Cor thought that was – Nyx was allowed to begin the formal, legal process of adopting Prompto, even if he was still more dead than alive, legally speaking. Which was a good thing, because the anxiety that someone would decide that no, actually, the little boy would be better off in someone else's hands after all, was slowly driving him insane. He'd whipped most of the Kingsglaive back into a functional strike team, and Clarus was already planning their first deployment under Nyx's command. Nyx desperately wanted to settle the matter about Prompto before he left, because he feared the boy would not be there when he came back, otherwise. Cor had made the mistake of trying to make light of the situation, once. 

Just once. 

“She didn't like you, obviously,” Cor snorted, rolling his eyes, “but it's not actually a requirement to like you, and her report seemed curt but truthful.” 

“It _is_ a requirement that they like you,” Nyx hissed, shoving blocks into the bucket a tad more forcefully than strictly necessary. “Because I'm not Lucian enough for any of them, and if they don't like me, they might just decide, you know what? No one needs another savage Galahd brat running around, why not give the boy to some real parents instead? Fuck the paperwork, and whether everything's technically okay or not, that's what the loopholes are for.” 

“Nyx,” Cor said sharply, frowning. “The system-” 

“The system works if you were born into it,” Nyx retorted, choking back a bitter laugh. “Which I wasn't, in case you forgot.” He smiled a little pitingly at Cor and shook his head. “This happens all the time in refugee camps, Marshal. They take our kids and tell us it's for the best because we're not fit to look after them. It doesn't matter what I do, it doesn't matter who vouches for me. They see me, braids and all, and suddenly I'm just another lazy, greedy _refugee_ from Galahd, abusing his Majesty's good will.” He swallowed hard. “And you know what? I don't usually care. I could cut off the braids and drop the accent and try my best to fit it, but I won't because they're _wrong_. I _know_ they're wrong, and it usually doesn't matter if they're wrong, because it's their loss, not mine. Except it matters now, because they're wrong and it could cost me my _son_.” 

Cor wordlessly passed Prompto into his arms, and said nothing as Nyx hugged the boy tightly and slowly lowered himself into the couch. Cor pulled out his phone as he sat next to Nyx and texted Monica to prepare for a new investigation. He had nothing of use to say, and as Nyx was fond of pointing out, he and reassuring didn't really mix well. 

He was much better at doing, anyway. 

* * *

Despite Nyx's best attempts, he was still legally dead by the time he'd been deployed, somewhere in the outskirts of Tenebrae. Cor had declined Clarus' offer to let him in on the mission details, and focused on his own duties instead. He told himself it wasn't Nyx's paranoia rubbing off him, that made him decide to work from home for the duration. It wasn't like he'd never done it before, though each prior time he'd been bedridden in some fashion. 

Monica knew better than to ask why he was suddenly launching a quiet investigation into the refugee situation in the city, but she dedicated herself to the task as she would any other. The reports made Cor's stomach twitch, in an echo of what Lyra's findings had. They weren't the Empire, they weren't literally turning their people into monsters and war machines grown in a lab, sure. But they were starving and grinding down those that needed them the most, like they had somehow decided that Lucis was only what existed beneath the protection of the wall and everything else was lost already. 

“War is never kind on the weakest and most vulnerable,” Clarus told him, after Cor presented his preliminary report. “You above all know that, my friend.” 

Cor set his jaw, and felt only marginally better when it made Clarus flinch. 

“What's the point trying to win this war if we've lost everything by the time we win it?” Cor asked him, sharp and relentless. 

Clarus' eyes turned to Prompto, lying on the carpet and watching some colorful, cheerful video on Cor's phone. He thinned his lips. 

“I'll speak with Regis about it,” he capitulated with a sigh. Then frowned in a way that made Cor brace himself on reflex. “You know, it can't be good for a child to spend so much time alone.” He watched Cor's expression carefully. “I'm sure Gladio would be delighted to make a new friend, if you ever need the time off.” 

“He's not my son,” Cor said softly, carefully avoiding the sharpness of Clarus' eyes, “so it's not my call to make.” He closed his eyes, sighing warily under the weight of the stare he was being subjected to. “But I'll bring it up, when Nyx gets back.” 

“Cor,” Clarus said, wary. 

“I don't wish to discuss it,” Cor replied, shuffling his reports perhaps a tad more forcefully than strictly necessary. “I will take no more of your time, Clarus. I'm sure you've got more than enough to keep you busy.” 

Clarus inclined his head as he stood up. 

“I do.” He smiled, nevertheless. “Take care, my friend.” He paused, and looked down at the boy peering at him curiously. “And you as well, Prompto.” 

Cor smirked a little, at the expression on Clarus' face when Prompto beamed at him. It was better than admitting what it did to _him_ , anyway. 

* * *

Nyx came home – Cor cursed the treacherous thought – covered in grime, dirt and more than a few bloodstains. None of them seemed to be his own, but Cor still nodded at the bathroom pointedly, after Nyx zeroed in on Prompto sleeping blissfully right smack in the middle of Cor's bed. When he came out of the shower, hair loose – all of it, even the braids, which Cor had never seen him without – and wearing only a loose pair of pants, Cor found himself staring and realized he didn't quite want to stop. So he didn't. 

“He'll be a veritable harpy if you wake him up,” Cor pointed out, holding on Nyx's pointed look. 

Nyx swallowed hard, licking his lips slowly. 

“You're a veritable asshole,” he said instead, and reached out to turn the bathroom's lights out. “Just so you know.” 

Cor shrugged as he watched him crawl into the unoccupied half of the bed, curling around Prompto with an exhausted sigh. 

“I'm well aware,” he whispered back, and settled in to wallow self-destructively in what he didn't have, yet, but could. 

Would. 

Patience might be a virtue, but no one had ever said Cor the Immortal was a virtous man of any sort. 

* * *

Lady Amicitia took a liking to Nyx instantly, which he wasn't entirely sure what to do with, except maybe ask for advice on handling an unruly, willful toddler with a temper. Gladio had taken to Prompto the same way most people did: melting helplessly under the stare of those wide, blue eyes. Nyx joked to Cor sometimes, that they were raising a weapon of mass destruction, and only half the time felt the joke chafe against the truth. Nevertheless, Gladio adored Prompto and Prompto learned very quickly that anything he did was twice as fun when someone else was involved, so the playdates became a thing, much to Nyx's chagrin and Cor's amusement. 

As soon as Nyx's situation regarding Prompto's legal guardianship status became known to her, however, she'd become an implaccable force to rival her husband. 

“Now then,” she said, arching an eyebrow at Nyx, “try again. And do make an effort this time, dear. You're depressing me.” 

Nyx winced, even as he laughed. 

“Uh, okay?” 

Cor drank his coffee, watching the proceedings with quiet amusement, and wasn't in the least bit surprised when Nyx's subsequent interviews went off much better. He was, however, pleased with the fact Nyx didn't seem to dread them quite so much, and ignored Clarus' smug smirks after he ordered an arrangement of gladiolus for his wife. 

* * *

Their celebration, as it were, the day Nyx came home with a brand new ID card and a sixteen page letter certifying in no uncertain terms that he was most assuredly _alive_ , was fairly quiet. Nyx ordered take out from Cor's favorite restaurant – and made a point to pay for it, all on his own, even if Cor rolled his eyes at him – and they sat in the living room, watching a cartoon movie that Prompto hummed along with during every song. 

The day Nyx Ulric became Prompto Argentum's official, legal guardian, however, quiet was nowhere near in the menu. 

Cor sat by the sidelines, drinking a beer and watching Libertus Ostium, Nyx's brickwall of a best friend, dance around the cramped patio with Prompto standing on his shoes. He amused himself watching Pelna's wife run Nyx through a gamut of instructions that were half recommendations, half threats. The entirety of the Kingslgaive was present, along with their families, and as food and beer flowed freely, Cor studied the differences between the braids in their heads, wondering absently what they meant. If it'd be rude to ask, even. 

“I'll deny saying this on pain of torture in the morning,” Crowe Altius told him, coming to stand by his side, “and it is entirely possible this is the beer talking, but if you hurt him, either of them, I will find you and kill you with my bare hands.” 

Cor arched an eyebrow at her, but she did not wilt. Not even a little. He made a mental note of that. 

“Duly noted,” he deadpanned back, and then made to toast to her. 

“Because we thought he was dead, and he wasn't,” she went on, clinking her own bottle to his on reflex. “And he's an idiot with a hero complex, but he's our idiot with a hero complex. And none of these idiots have figured it out, but I have, and if you hurt him I really will kill you.” 

“Perfectly reasonable,” Cor added, lips twitching in amusement. 

“Yes, well, that's what I'm good at,” Crowe insisted, scoffing. Then she tilted the rest of her beer back and went off to snatch Prompto into her arms and pick a fight with Libertus at the same time. 

Cor caught Nyx's eye and allowed himself a flash of a smile, just barely enough to get him flustered about the repercussions of getting his life back on track, finally. 

Cor drank his beer and decided life was good. 

* * *


	3. year iii

* * *

_year iii_

* * *

“It shouldn't be too bad,” Nyx said, shrugging as he studied the maps on the table. “If the generator isn't fully operational yet, we can definitely ruin their day.” 

“And if it is?” Clarus asked, frowning. 

Nyx shrugged. 

“Then we'll pull back and let Crowe and her team _really_ ruin their day.” 

Clarus' lip twitched. 

“Any particular reason why that isn't the first plan of attack?” He asked instead, expression stern once more. 

Nyx shrugged, again. He did a lot of shrugging, whenever he found himself alone with Clarus – or worse, still, Clarus and the King. It was better than fidgeting, at least. He knew he was good at leading in the field, but it was everything off it that came with command, that gave him trouble sometimes. The formality and ceremony just... made his skin crawl. But, he'd promised the King he'd look after the Kingsglaive, and considering Glauca was his only point of reference, he couldn't afford to fuck it up. It didn't help, either, that by nature the Kingsglaive was constantly compared with the Crownsguard, and not often positively. Their hierarchy was too loose and informal in places, but Nyx considered most of his men to be his brothers, and he wasn't the type who enjoyed ordering people around. And then there was the fact they were quickly becoming Lucis' main fighting force, beyond the wall, while the Crownsguard as a whole focused more on keeping the peace within it. The intelligence wing of the Crownsguard worked closely with them, but everyone else... Nyx was sick and tired of the petty squabbles, between his people looking down at the Crownsguard as toy soldiers, and the Crownsguard looking down at them as savages. It was getting pretty ridiculous. 

“Nilfs are shifty little shits,” Nyx explained, grinning as he caught Clarus' lip twitching in a repressed smile again. “They monitor their bases pretty closely, even when they're not fully operational. It's not worth showing all our cards just yet, and letting them get prepared for next time. Libertus' team can get in and open the way without being noticed, which means they won't know what they have to prepare against, next time. Once we're in, the fighting'll be mostly a diversion to let Pelna's team set the charges. It won't be anything they haven't seen before, so we know what to expect.” 

“It's a good plan,” Clarus said after a moment, nodding his approval, and grinning wryly when Nyx gave him a pleased look, perking up. “You must nonetheless work on your wording, Commander. The King and his council must approve it, after all.” 

Nyx deflated. The King wasn't the problem, really. He got along well with him and he seemed to approve of what he'd done with the Kingsglaive in his name. His council, though... His council hadn't taken Glauca seriously, and he'd been a condecorated war hero general. By comparison, Nyx knew well enough most found his age offensive on principle. 

“Will do, Lord Amicitia,” he muttered, clearly not enthused at the prospect. 

“Clarus, Nyx,” Clarus insisted, more out of habit than anything else. “You really don't have to take over Cor's duties being a stubborn ass, while he's away.” 

Nyx twitched. 

“Of course not, Lord Amicitia,” he replied, but before he could elaborate, possibly in further deadpan, his watch beeped an alarm. “Shit. Uh.” He looked up sheepishly as he turned it off. “...rain check?” 

“I expect the full dossier on my desk, first thing in the morning,” Clarus replied, nodding. “And I expect no mention of _shifty little shits_ in it.” 

Nyx winced a laugh, bowed, and then walked out the office as briskly as he could without breaking into a dead run. He cheated his way down by jumping down the stairs three steps at the time, rather than wade through the crowds waiting for the elevators. He stepped out into the parking lot beneath the Citadel, and walked to the bike as he began patting his pockets. 

“Keys, keys, keys,” he muttered, silently cursing the fact his uniform seemed to have approximately six million different places where he could have put them. 

“Nyx!” Crowe called, and he looked up to find her standing by the doorway, twirling a familiar keyring in one finger. “Looking for this?” 

She smirked as she threw them at him. 

“What would I do without you?” He asked, grinning as he caught them. 

“Keel over and die,” Crowe replied matter-of-factly, waving a hand in a shooing motion. “Away with you now.” 

“Aye, aye,” Nyx snorted, mounting the motorcycle as the engine purred to life under him. “See you tomorrow.” 

Crowe smiled. 

“Say hi to Prom for me,” she replied, as he slid the helmet on. 

Nyx offered a salute, and then he was off. 

* * *

“Prompto, your dad's here.” 

Following the announcement, Nyx grinned at the sudden trampling of feet and the inevitable weight attached to his leg. Prompto clung to him like he'd been gone an age, which, he supposed, from his perspective, he had. 

“Hey, little man,” he said, reaching down to ruffle the mess of blond locks that had, as per routine, somehow morphed from lying neatly on his head, to a veritable explosion that stuck every which way. “Were you good today?” 

Prompto muttered something against his knee. Nyx arched an eyebrow, and then felt his expression fall flat somewhat, as he noticed one of the attendants making his way to him, face set into a stern frown. 

“Oh boy...” 

“Mr. Ulric,” she said, looking up at him over the rim of her thin, black glasses. “Good evening.” 

“Hi,” Nyx replied, trying for charm but not quite getting there. 

She gave him a cool look, clearly not impressed. 

“There was a situation, today,” she said briskly, without preamble. 

“...situation,” Nyx repeated, resisting the urge to wince with the experience of listening to Libertus deliver progress reports on the newest ranks amongst the Kingsglaive. “Prompto, go say goodbye to your friends before we leave.” 

Prompto clung a bit harder for a moment, before he scurried back inside the building. 

“Prompto bit me,” she said, with the air of someone delivering grim news. “That sort of behavior is not... applauded here.” 

Nyx was about to ask what the hell was that supposed to mean, but he noticed the way she kept staring at the braids down his shoulders. Right. 

“Pretty fucking frowned upon back home, too,” he replied, childishly taking pleasure in the way her eyes widened at the swear. He regretted it when it made her glare at him, so he went on, on a more pacifying tone. “Any idea what caused it?” 

She pursed her lips, as if she hadn't expected an inquiry on that line. Nyx told himself that making a scene would help no one, and called forth patience he didn't know he had. 

“Public health came in today,” she said eventually, looking irritated. “To deliver immunizations. Prompto... disagreed. Vocally.” 

“Prompto's off the official immunization schedule,” Nyx pointed out, feeling his temper start to twitch. “So good on him for remembering what you clearly didn't read, from his file.” 

“Oh,” she said, voice turning frigid, “you're one of _those_.” 

“Those,” he repeated, forcing a smile on his face. “Would you mind elaborating?” 

Her eyes flashed. 

“One of those idiots who'd rather see their children die from perfectly preventable deseases, over some rubbish published by a hack without a medical license. You... you... irresponsible bastard!” 

Nyx blinked, clearly not having expected that. 

“Oh,” he said, then laughed. Laughter was probably the wrong reaction, considering her face flushed and she looked like she was contemplating violence herself. “No, not one of those.” He said placatingly, because hey, at least she hadn't called him a dirty, savage, good-for-nothing refugee. That made her almost alright in his books. “Prom has... a condition. He's got all his immunizations, he just doesn't follow the standard calendar for them.” He wasn't about to explain Prompto's regular visits to the labs in the Citadel, which were mostly convinced he was fine, but still wanted to keep an eye on him, in case he wasn't. That was above everyone's paygrade, except maybe Cor's, Clarus' and the King himself. He narrowed his eyes. “Which, again, is perfectly detailed in his file. The hell did you make me write that if no one's going to look into it?” 

The blush felt like a victory. He reminded himself he was supposed to be de-escalating the situation, not making it worse. 

“He _bit_ me,” she insisted, refusing to stand down. 

Nyx gave her a flat look. 

“Lady,” he said, voice dry like the wastelands of Leide, “he's _three years old_ , you come at him with a needle and he's gonna defend himself as best he can.” 

“Even... even so!” She scowled. “Such pattern of behavior can't-” 

“Self-defense is not a pattern,” he deadpanned and only after he did it he realized he was pulling a pretty good Cor impression. “It's by definition a reaction, so maybe don't make the kid feel he has to defend himself?” 

“I-” 

“ _Letho._ ” The woman stiffened immediately. Nyx blinked as he noticed one of the older women approaching them with Prompto in hand. “Please go help Claudia.” 

“Of course, ma'am,” the woman – Letho, he supposed – replied, and after one last look and a very reluctant nod, disappeared back inside the building. “Excuse me.” 

“Mr. Ulric,” the older woman said, and Nyx's skin threatened to break into hives on reflex. There was something profoundly wrong in having someone old enough to be his mother talking to him in that tone. “Apologies for that. She means well, you understand, she's merely... young and opinionated.” 

“No kidding,” Nyx blurted out before he could stop himself. He coughed. “I mean. Uh. No big deal.” 

Her smile was wry and it made him want to squirm. He resisted, barely. 

“See you tomorrow, sir,” she said, nodding as she put Prompto's hand in his. Nyx managed, somehow, not to flinch. “And you as well, Prompto.” 

Prompto muttered something indistinct, looking at the floor. Nyx stared at her retreating back for a moment, before he hauled Prompto up in his arms. 

“You did good,” he said, as Prompto grabbed a braid and began to relax. 

“Biting is bad,” Prompto mumbled against his neck. “Miss Savis said so.” 

“Biting is _selectively_ bad,” Nyx replied, as he started the walk home. “I mean, you shouldn't. In general. But this once, it's okay.” 

“Mmmm,” Prompto replied, not quite convinced. “I want curry.” He shifted a bit, nuzzling up against Nyx's face. “Please.” 

“That's doable,” Nyx replied, grinning. “Green or red?” 

“Green,” Prompto said solemnly, and then brightened up considerably. “Green is the goodest _everything_.” 

* * *

Nyx typed _then we'll just fuck them up with everything we have, dammit_ , blinked and then sighed. Paperwork, really. Paperwork could go suck a dick. He wrinkled his nose and looked down at Prompto, who was not, for once, engrossed in the colorful adventures of Tula the Anak, currently playing on TV, and instead was drawing with a frown on his face to rival Nyx's. 

“What are you doing?” Nyx asked him, because at that point anything was better than trying to write something that wouldn't offend the King's council, despite the certainty that anything would anyway. “Prom?” 

“Letter,” Prom said, not looking up. “For biting.” 

Nyx smiled wryly. 

“Why?” 

“Biting is bad,” Prompto insisted, then switched crayons with a determined frown. “It hurts. Miss Savis cried.” He looked up at Nyx with the most serious expression his face could muster, which unfortunately wasn't much. Nyx didn't laugh, but it was a near thing. “Cor says, you hurt someone, you apolonize. Alopolize.” He frowned. “Apogolize.” 

“Apologize,” Nyx offered with a half smile. 

“Again?” Prompto asked, bottom lip stuck out in a pout. 

“Apologize,” Nyx obliged, slower this time. 

“Apologize,” Prompto said carefully, brow furrowed. “That. Cor says so.” 

“Does he now,” Nyx mused, smile only skin deep on his face, to keep the thoughts in the back of his head from coming across his expression. 

Prompto went back to his letter, which, now that Nyx got a good look at was more of a drawing than anything else. 

“Dad?” He asked after a moment, voice quieter. “When's Cor coming back?” 

Nyx sighed. 

“Dunno, Prom,” he replied, as truthfully and neutrally as he could. “Maybe tomorrow.” 

“You said that yesterday,” Prompto said, far too accusingly for a child his age. 

Nyx shrugged as he closed his laptop and put it aside. 

“I did say _maybe_ ,” he replied, and then reached down to pull Prompto into his arms. “Maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after.” 

Prompto made a quiet, thoughtful sound, and it somehow made Nyx feel he was the one that should write a letter of apology. It wasn't the best feeling in the world. 

* * *

“I... might have misjudged you,” Letho told him, a week later when he saw her again. 

Nyx gave up pretenses and rolled his eyes. 

“ _Might_.” 

Letho flushed. 

“Shut up and let me apologize!” She snapped back, before she coughed and tried to put her cool demeanor back in place. Nyx figured it didn't really work, once you saw the boiling temper beneath. “I... made assumptions. About your parenting skills, that were not, in fact, based on reality. This... was wrong of me.” 

“Yes,” Nyx agreed, one eyebrow arched, “it was.” 

Letho's composure cracked again. 

“You're enjoying this!” She said accusingly, pointing a thin, perfectly manicured finger up at his nose. “You're _the worst_.” 

“Hey I don't usually get apologies after someone swallows a foot around me,” Nyx pointed out, grinning by degrees to try and pinpoint the exact measure that made her face flame best. “I'm enjoying the rare occasion.” 

She froze, though, rather than bite back, and Nyx wondered if he'd pushed too hard. There was a line one shouldn't cross, after all, antagonizing one of the people in charge of caring for his kid. 

“Oh,” she said instead, looking down at her feet. “Oh, I didn't realize that... Because you're from. Oh. I'm sorry.” Nyx stared a bit. “Look, I. Went into this line of work because I like children. You see a lot of... really stupid, terrible things, in this job. And it's not fair on them, because they don't have anyone to stand up for them, when it's their parents that are hurting them. So I stand up for them, when I can.” She winced. “I just... get a bit... overzealous, sometimes.” 

Nyx laughed. 

“I get that this is where I'm supposed to tell you to be less reckless and more thoughtful about your actions,” he replied, sticking his hands into the back pockets of his pants. “But considering, a. you're older than me, and b. what I do for a living, I really don't have a leg to stand on, here.” 

“I'm not older than you,” Letho snapped indigntantly, face flushed. 

Nyx grinned. 

“I'm twenty-two,” he said, enjoying the look of sheer horror on her face. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Letho blurted out, eyes wide, “you're _not_.” Nyx grinned and her face burned red again. “But you're so...” She waved her hands helplessly. “Well put-together.” 

Nyx's grin widened a sliver. 

“Am I, really?” He teased, “or am I just _really good_ at bullshitting?” 

Letho snorted, shaking her head. 

“You are,” she said, surprisingly serious. She smiled. “Prompto made me the loveliest card to apologize for the bite, and either you told him to do it, even if you were pissed at me, or you _didn't_ tell him to do it, because you were pissed at me, but he still did it anyway because you already taught him it was the right thing to do. So yes, I'd say you're doing alright.” 

Her eyes danced in amusement as his face burned, for a change. 

“Er.” 

“I'll be more careful,” she promised, “about getting all the facts before I lash out. And,” she smiled, pushing the glasses up his nose. “You know. I know it's hard, raising a kid on your own. So. If you ever need help, with the little guy, you just need to ask.” 

“I appreciate the offer,” he replied, shrugging a little awkwardly. 

Letho grinned. 

“Well good,” she tilted her chin up arrogantly, “I'm very good at what I do, I'll have you know.” 

Nyx snorted. 

* * *

Cor had left two days after the party to celebrate Prompto's adoption. Nyx hadn't found out he'd left the city until three days later, when Monica cornered him on his lunch and let him know he'd be gone for a few days. Nyx hadn't thought much about it, at the time; Cor was The Immortal, after all. Besides his job running the Crownsguard, he was also one of the finest tools in his Majesty's arsenal, and they were still at war. He had thanked Monica for telling him, and then carried on as usual. 

Except the days turned into weeks, which melted into months, and it would be fine, really, except no one seemed to spare a thought for the man. 

Nyx didn't know how he felt about that, except a deep seated annoyance that he didn't want to contemplate in detail. It felt stupid to be angry at Cor, since Cor was just doing his job – and he was fine, anyway, the Nilfs hadn't invented anything yet, that Cor the Immortal couldn't walk away from like it was nothing – but the annoyance was there. He'd planned on moving, finally, now that he had resources at his disposal, to find somewhere nice and proper to raise a kid like Prompto. Somewhere he could call home without qualifications or mental hoops to jump through. Instead, he was still living in Cor's place, because it felt wrong somehow, for Cor to come back and find them gone. 

And Prompto missed him. 

Prompto didn't understand anything about work or Cor's fabled inability to be killed. Prompto just knew that one of the people he was used to interacting with every day, someone he cared for and he considered family, was suddenly not there. Nyx decided he could be pissed about that, and focused on it instead of trying to unravel the mess of feelings in his gut. Feelings were stupid, anyway. He could be pissed at Cor for making Prompto sad, and because it made his own inevitable deployment into an ordeal, rather than something easier for him to handle. 

They were gonna have to talk about it, was the thing, and Nyx was not particularly looking forward to that kind of thing. Because it was one thing to think Cor was funny and likable and someone he wouldn't particularly mind fucking sixty different ways into a wall. It was another entirely to commit to a relationship – which they didn't even have, one awkward blowjob in the kitchen nonwithstanding – and commit to actually raise a child. And it was stupid and complicated and Nyx would much rather it were not an issue all together, but they were also soldiers in a stupid war that seemed unending, and it'd need to be sorted out. 

And Nyx wouldn't have thought of it or be annoyed by thoughts of it, at all, if Cor weren't a shithead who left without even saying goodbye. 

Except he disliked thinking about it in those terms, true as they might be, because he wasn't a fucking teenager with a crush. 

Prompto cried, when Nyx picked him up from Monica's place – he'd meant to leave him with Pelna's wife, but Monica had offered and Nyx still didn't know how to say no to Monica – after a tedious audience with the King, following the successful destruction of the base in Cleigne. 

“Hey, little man,” Nyx whispered, pulling Prompto up into his arms, “why the tears?” 

“You came back,” Prompto brawled miserably, even as Nyx wound his fingers into his hair. 

“I... don't understand?” Monica ventured, blinking. “He was perfectly fine while you were gone.” 

Nyx shrugged as he rocked Prompto in his arms. 

“Thank you for looking after him,” he said instead, and grinned a bit when Monica looked flustered for a split second, before she composed herself. 

“It was no trouble at all,” she replied, smiling easily at him. “You're doing a good job, Commander.” Her lips twitched in amusement when he flinched at his own rank. “Let's just hope Cor doesn't undo it all once he's back.” 

Nyx forced himself to laugh, awkward even to his own ears. 

“Dunno, I'm starting to think he ran off on purpose,” he joked, and realized that was a mistake by the look Monica gave him. 

“I sincerely doubt it,” she said, giving him a knowing look that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, “the Marshal, you see. He's like a tree, sometimes. Once he sets root somewhere, it's very hard to actually move him.” 

* * *

Nyx summoned the dagger before he finished waking up properly, at the sound of the front door clicking shut. Prompto remained, as he was prone to, blissfully unaware of anything amiss. Nyx slid off the bed and twirled the dagger in his hand, padding quietly out the room and down the corridor. He turned down the corner into the living room, and barely had any time to block the incoming sword swing. 

There was a profound silence all around, as he and Cor shared an equally surprised look. Then Cor let go of his sword and it vanished into the void. Nyx took a second longer to let go of his daggers, mostly because his arms were numb up to his elbows, just from that one hit. 

“Nyx,” Cor said eventually, frowning. 

“You look like shit,” Nyx blurted out, blinking. 

Cor snorted. 

“Feel like it, too,” he admitted, placing a hand on the back of his neck and cracking it loudly. 

“Pft, that says something, I guess,” Nyx replied, shaking his head, before nodding to the corridor. “Want me to fish out something from the fridge while you clean up?” He smirked when Cor grunted. “Just don't wake up the sleeping gremling.” 

“Isn't it supposed to be sleeping beauty?” Cor wondered absently, as he began shuffling in the vague direction of the bathroom. 

“Sleeping beauty doesn't throw a tantrum because there's a voretooth under her bed, though.” 

Nyx watched him shrug as he disappeared down the corridor and sighed as he headed to the kitchen. He did look like shit, which he supposed was a given, considering he'd been gone over six months, doing Astrals only knew what. He heard the shower start running as he stared down at the sea of takeout bits and pieces in the fridge, and sighed again. 

“Man, what a pain,” he muttered, scratching his side. 

He supposed that, if it weren't three in the fucking morning, he'd be a little more pissed about that. Not that Cor had left, but that he'd gone without saying anything and Nyx had to find out through Monica, because she was the only one who thought maybe Cor's... roommate might want a heads up before he started wondering where the hell he'd vanished off into. And even then, Monica had originally suggested Cor would be gone for a few days, not _months_. 

And yeah, Nyx was perhaps a little salty about the fact no one even considered the possibility of declaring the asshole dead, but he'd always known and owned the fact he was a petty man. 

He finished putting together a full plate with bits and pieces that were still good enough to eat and, as it heated up in the microwave, threw out everything he'd been procrastinating to clean. He sat on the table, waiting for Cor to come back, and scowled at himself, irritated at the fact he was suddenly just glad to see the bastard's face again, all twitchy, circling thoughts buried beneath the feeling. 

Fuck. 

“I didn't think you'd still be here,” Cor said quietly, as he took the seat opposite from Nyx, staring down at his place with a deep frown. “When I got back.” 

Nyx swallowed hard. 

“Can be gone by morning, if you want,” he said, trying for flippant and failing miserably. 

Cor actually took a moment to think about it, and Nyx didn't kick him under the table for it, just because it was the most _Cor_ thing he could have done. 

“No,” he said, carefully avoiding to look at Nyx in the eye. “I'm... glad you are. Just surprised.” 

“Yeah, well,” Nyx replied, looking away with a shrug. “It'd be rude, wouldn't it, to leave without saying a word.” 

Cor sighed. 

“Truce?” He asked, lips twitching into a faint wry smirk when he caught Nyx's eye with his own. “I just need to remember what's like, to sleep six hours in a row. Then I'll actually mean everything I say.” 

Nyx gave a sigh of his own. 

“Truce, then.” 

* * *

Despite Cor's implication that he only needed a few hours to recover, he was out a solid day and a half after his head hit the pillow. Nyx checked on him, just because he wasn't sure the man hadn't gone and died on him, before shuffling into his usual Friday routine. He'd also expected Prompto to be a lot more fussy about Cor's presence, all things considered, but all he'd done was walk over the edge of the bed, stare intently at Cor's sleeping face, and then scurry back out with a solemn nod. He made no fuss at all about leaving for Pelna's home come Saturday morning, as if once he'd seen Cor with his own eyes, he no longer had any concerns about it. Nyx mused about it, but decided in the end it was probably as good a scenario as he was gonna get, to talk things out with Cor. 

“You sure it's okay?” Nyx asked nonetheless, probably for the fourth time, watching Harit show Prompto each gift he'd gotten for his birthday the day before. “You have a full house tonight.” 

“Nyx,” Pelna said, rolling his eyes good naturedly. “Letting Prompto stay the night is another treat for Harit. It'll be fine.” 

“I mean...” 

“Just go and do whatever it is you don't want to do,” Pelna insisted, moutht twisted into a wry smile. “Just promise you won't tell me about it, if it involves the Immortal. I like sleeping at night.” 

“But I'm melodramatic?” Nyx teased, hiding his smile behind a glass. 

“You're melodramatic _and_ suicidal,” Pelna declared, shaking his head. “Which is a terrible combination to have, and one I hope Prom doesn't learn from you.” 

“Dunno, his other option at this point is to learn broody scowling from Cor,” Nyx mused, grinning as Pelna shuddered. “But he just doesn't really have the face for it.” 

Prompto chose that moment to come running, holding a card with a picture of a chocobo in his hands that Harit had given him. Nyx amused himself asking him about it and watching Prom beam proudly as he shuffled about his words to best express himself. 

“Will Cor be home?” Prompto asked him, as Nyx bid his goodbyes – Pelna wouldn't stop staring at him like he knew he was procrastinating something and he needed Nyx to know he disapproved of it. “When I go?” 

“Probably,” Nyx replied, not entirely comfortable promising something he wasn't certain of. 

“Okay,” Prompto nodded, and then scurried away without a fuss. 

Children, he decided. Children were _weird_. 

* * *

“Look, blowjobs aren't legally binding,” Nyx said, once he got sick of the awkward silence. Cor snorted and sat next to him, couch dipping under his weight. “Well, they're not. If you're just in for the sex, I'm cool with it. But I'm also trying to raise a kid, here, and. If it's just the sex, we can't live with you.” Nyx shrugged, licking his lips. “I know you like the kid, and I really appreciate the fact you've put up with my useless ass for so long. I don't want to ask you to raise him with me if you don't want to, but if we're living together, I kind of already am, just because that sort of happens when you do.” 

Cor shrugged, leaning back on the couch at the same time Nyx leaned forward, arms on his knees. 

“I just want to point out,” he said quietly, and Nyx hated the fact he'd missed his voice so much, almost as much as he hated the realization. “You keep talking about it, like we already had sex.” 

Nyx chuckled, despite it all, and then tensed and relaxed, when he felt a hand on his back and a finger rubbing at the dip of his spine between his shoulder blades. 

“Oh, you're gonna try and tell me now, it's not a given?” Nyx said, looking at him over the corner of his eye. 

Cor arched an eyebrow. 

“Is it, now?” 

Nyx sat back, shifting until he was resting his chin on Cor's chest. Cor's arm moved to wrap around his shoulders, like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

“You're not as subtle as you think you are,” Nyx snorted as Cor's eyes slid half mast. 

“And yet here we are,” Cor replied, “having this conversation.” 

“We're having this conversation,” Nyx said, rolling his eyes with a flourish, “because next time you fuck off to Six knows where, I want to know what the hell to tell Prom, when he starts asking after you.” 

Cor's free hand wound into the hair at the nape of Nyx's neck, tugging hard enough to be a suggestion, but not hard enough to be a command. Nyx followed the movement anyway, sliding into his lap as his face ended up a breath away from Cor's. 

“Tell him the truth,” Cor whispered, lips brushing against Nyx's, “that I'll get home eventually.” 

“Eventually,” Nyx snorted, licking his lips just for the sake of watching Cor's eyes darken from up close, and studiously avoiding the free-fall of acknowledging the rest of that statement. 

“Eventually is better than never,” Cor pointed out. 

Nyx kissed him, rather than answer. Cor didn't mind. 

* * *

Prompto hadn't cried, when he'd seen Cor. Prompto had crawled into his lap and settled in to sleep without a word. Nyx no longer questioned it. 

“You went to _Gralea_?” 

Nyx stared at Cor like he'd spontaneously grown a second head. Cor shrugged. Prompto made a small protesting noise as his current chosen pillow shifted under him, and Cor sighed, running a hand through his hair placatingly. 

“I improvised,” he deadpanned, not very helpfully. 

“ _Gralea_ , Cor,” Nyx insisted, because it truly beared repeating and passed him a mug of coffee, almost thick with sugar, just the way he liked it. 

Cor smiled down at it, the same way he'd smiled when Nyx had slumped into him, thoroughly exhausted. It made Nyx want to kiss him, even if he was a suicidal idiot who casually strolled across the continent to check out the enemy capital when he'd been originally sent out to case out the border. It occurred to Nyx that he had no reason not to kiss him anymore, besides the fact he was a suicidal idiot who drove him up a wall by his apparent inability to die, so he did. 

“What's that for?” Cor asked, frowning at Nyx like he'd done something unexpected. 

“Just 'cause,” Nyx sighed, taking a seat next to him with a slight shake of his head. “I felt like it.” 

Cor made a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat, but said nothing. 

Really, there was nothing else to say. 

* * *


	4. year iv

* * *

_year iv_

* * *

“Oh my god,” Nyx whispered, lying on Cor, who was lying on the couch, as he stared at the screen of his phone. “I hate you so much.” 

Cor snorted. 

“Oh no,” he deadpanned, “my hopes and dreams.” 

“No, shut up,” Nyx groaned, sliding down enough to rest his head on Cor's shoulder, “you don't understand. You showed this to _Prom_.” 

On Cor's phone, the tiny cactuar made a whistling noise and seemed to dance in place for a moment, before it turned to the camera and started spewing needles viciously. The recording ended abruptly afterwards, with a quiet ' _ah, shit_ ' from Cor's own voice. 

“He's the entire reason I bothered to record it,” Cor muttered, frowning down at the sheer despair with which Nyx was half-way melting on him. “You don't see many of them anymore, around Leide.” 

“Cor,” Nyx said patiently, and yet very tiredly, “Prom's four.” Cor arched an eyebrow, unimpressed by the obvious. “Cor, four is the age of _obsession_. I hope you understand our lives are going to be a _non stop parade of cactuars_ , until the next big thing comes around. They're green, too, you fantastic bastard, _he's never gonna let it go_.” 

It took Nyx a moment to realize Cor was laughing at him. It was quiet, rumbling deep in the center of his chest, and Nyx took a moment to bask in the sound before he snorted. 

“Yeah, you laugh, shithead,” he grumbled, ignoring the fingers slowly worming their way under the braids, scratching at his scalp just _so_. “Wanna see you laughing when you forget there are other colors, besides green.” 

“Are there?” Cor asked, in that precise mix of deadpan and mocking that was guaranteed to make Nyx snicker. 

He resisted valiantly for perhaps two seconds, but the fingers were his undoing. 

“Fine,” he snorted, “but he needs new clothes and _you_ 're taking him shopping, not me.” 

Cor shrugged, because he was a godless, fearless monster who knew no better. 

* * *

Nyx closed the fridge and took a moment to admire the collection of cactuar art plastered on all available surfaces as he popped open his beer. He was deploying in the morning – yes, Crowe insisted, three in the morning still counted as 'morning', though Nyx had a feeling she said so purely because she enjoyed watching Libertus grump about it – so he'd have to turn in an early night, but he always liked having a drink before he left. Not enough to get drunk, because he wasn't irresponsible, but something nice to send him off. He'd always thought it would suck to die without one last beer to enjoy before he went, though he refused to share the thought, not even with Libertus, because he knew it was morbid. It wasn't like he could afford to die now, anyway, what with a little tyke running his life for him and decorating every inch of it with cactuars of all things. 

Speaking of cactuar enthusiasts, Prompto chose that moment to walk into the kitchen, holding a sheet of paper full of dancing little terrors, in all seven different shades of green that the nearest art supply store carried, that also happened to be non-toxic. He was also wearing a shirt that boldly proclaimed CAN'T TOUCH THIS, with a fallen cactuar raising one prickly arm up in a gesture made very rude by strategic placement of its needles. Because Cor was an asshole like that and he'd thoroughly enjoyed putting Nyx in the position of having to explain to Prompto that he couldn't wear it outside the apartment. Ever. No matter how much he loved it or how comfortable it was. 

The fact that Cor owned an adult-sized version of it, and that Nyx had fucked him up a wall while wearing it on more than one occasion, was just the kind of thing Nyx had to live with the knowledge of, for the rest of his life. 

Prompto looked up at Nyx and solemnly offered his latest masterpiece. 

“Nice work, Prom,” Nyx said, smiling, because it was. He'd thought there were only so many ways you could depict a cactuar, but Prompto seemed intent on finding new ones. He placed his beer on the counter and went to dig out the tape from a drawer. “Where do you wanna put this one?” 

“Can you...” Prompto began, and frowned. “Can you take it? With you?” He hit Nyx with the full brunt of his sad, sad look. “For luck?” 

Nyx didn't crumble on the spot, but it was a damn near thing. 

“You sure?” He asked, crouching to be eye-level with him. Prompto immediately reached out to run his hands down the braids – he didn't tug so much, these days, but he was a creature of comfort and Nyx didn't really mind. “It might get a bit battered, out there in the field.” 

“Cactuars are tough,” Prompto proclaimed, shaking his head. And then he beamed at Nyx, adoringly. “It'll protect you!” 

And that was why Nyx ended up running a very irritating operation in the Duscae marshes with a cactuar fingerpainting folded up inside the inner pocket of his jacket. It was not so bad, despite the weather and the Nilfs and the one feral catoblepas that ruined the script entirely. 

* * *

“You're an asshole,” Nyx said, giving Libertus an exhasperated look as Prompto continued to squeal in delight over the stuffed cactuar he'd been given. 

“You hurt my feelings, Nyx,” Libertus replied, grinning a way that showed his feelings were recovering nicely. “You're just jealous I like your kid more than you.” 

“My life is cactuars, Libertus,” Nyx said with a sigh. “ _All_ of it. You're not helping.” 

Libertus very pointedly did not look at Cor, poring over paperwork at the dinner table. 

“I'd sympathize, really,” Libertus said, smirking, “but I reckon you like prickly things, deep down. You're crazy like that.” 

Nyx punched him in the shoulder and laughed, because he'd never known how to lie to Libertus and he wasn't in a hurry to start. 

* * *

“Commander, a moment?” 

Nyx almost didn't flinch. Almost. The title didn't feel quite so big anymore, suffocating him under its weight. But that sure was the King strolling into his office, smiling faintly at him that smile of his that never failed to make Cor snarl reflexively whenever it was aimed at him. Nyx generally thought that was just Cor being dramatic, because the alternative was to believe his reactions were well founded, and Nyx had so few heroes left, he refused to let go of the ones he still had. 

“Your Majesty,” he said, standing up at once, “of course.” 

“At ease, Commander,” the King said, waving a hand at him as he stepped further into the room. “The inevitable has come to pass, I'm afraid.” 

Nyx stared blankly for a moment, racking his brain for anything that qualified as such, and mentally tallying up his men: where they were and how long it'd take to get all them ready for deployment. The King laughed, though, which threw all of Nyx's carefully controlled panic into disrray. 

“Sir?” 

“I've been delivered an ultimatum, you see,” Regis said, far too amused for the words, “Noctis demands, with the full weight of his authority as Crown Prince, you understand, to meet Gladio's friend, young Prompto.” Nyx didn't actually sigh and slump down into his chair, but it was a near thing. The King's smile widened a sliver. “I wished to know if you were amenable to the idea.” 

“Uh,” Nyx replied eloquently, and only barely managed to swallow the _shit, of course_ that wanted to spill out his mouth, because he wasn't entirely incompetent. “Ah. Sure?” 

The King's eyes softened slightly and Nyx did not fidget, because he was not a child, really, he wasn't. 

“It's not an order, you understand,” he said, expression kind and magnanimous and everything that made Nyx okay with throwing himself face first into danger in his name. “If you're uncomfortable with the notion-” 

“No, no, it's just.” Nyx swallowed hard. “You know. With Prom being...” 

He made a little helpless gesture with his hands. The King nodded solemnly. 

“Has there been cause for concern?” He asked, frowning slightly. 

“Not really? We–I don't think so,” Nyx muttered, and ignored the fact he could feel his face heating up at the slip. “I mean, the cactuar obsession is hopefully temporary, but beyond that, he's just. You know, a kid. Your Majesty,” he added, almost as an afterthought. 

Nyx got the impression the King was laughing at him without actually doing so. It was different from Cor's ludicrous ability to laugh with his eyes alone, but similar. Almost... familiar. 

“Despite the accident of his birth,” Regis said, smiling softly, “when I accepted to put him in your care, it was with the hope that he would grow to be a Crown citizen. It might be naive of me to think so, but I do believe we are defined by our actions in life, rather than where we started from.” 

Nyx nodded. 

“Of course, your Majesty,” he replied, reminded yet again that the everything he did in the name of his King was worthwhile, no matter what. “I'm sure Prompto will be delighted to meet the young Prince.” 

“Thank you, Commander,” Regis said, nodding. “Sylvia will arrange the details with you, then.” 

Nyx, who'd never met the King's head of staff personally and thus didn't know the horror that was about to befall him, nodded and smiled, pleased. 

* * *

“Ah,” Cor said, two days later, as he took a seat at Nyx's table and started eating the fries from Nyx's plate without a care, “you met Sylvia.” 

There was a ripple of murmurs around the canteen, but then there always were, when Cor was involved. They ignored it. 

“Can you fuck off?” Nyx snapped on reflex, glowering irritably as Cor's smirk widened a sliver. “Shit.” 

“She's mellowed out with the years,” Cor told him, insufferably calm as he stole another fry, “if you'll believe it.” 

“I don't,” Nyx muttered, shuddering. And then: “ _Shit_ ,” because one clearly wasn't enough. 

“She's Regis' cousin on his mother's side,” Cor informed him, clearly enjoying his misery. “If he is King of Lucis, she is Queen of his household. Has always been. She's very... organized.” 

“I did not know charts could be weaponized,” Nyx deadpanned. “ _Charts_.” 

Cor shrugged. 

“You're lucky you don't have to attend her balls,” he said, wryly amused. “Though I doubt it'll last long, now that she's aware of your existence.” 

Nyx gave him a look that clearly invited him to do several physically impossible things with his sword. Cor snorted. 

“Just don't... fight her,” he said, “it's like picking a fight with the ocean, you end up wet, half drowned and with sand up in places you didn't even know sand could be.” 

“Well, there's an image,” Nyx chuckled, despite himself. “Is it terrible of me, to be second guessing whether I want my son to befriend the Prince, just because his aunt is fucking terrifying?” 

“No,” Cor said, “it means you're sensible.” Nyx squinted at him, and after a moment the corner of Cor's lip twitched. “Despite all evidence to the contrary.” 

“Have I reminded you today that you're an amazing asshole?” Nyx laughed, burying his face in his hands. 

“I was starting to think you'd forgotten,” Cor muttered, voice deadpan, and Nyx didn't kiss him just because he wouldn't give the bastard the satisfaction. 

Well, that and they were still, technically, at work, but that mattered a lot less to him than spite did, at the moment. 

* * *

Despite the fussing and the never ending stream of criticism and warnings, the official royal playdate went pretty well. Nyx took Cor's advice to heart, even if it meant he had to unenviable job of trying to wrestle a very stubborn child into a suit and tie – the tie had an interlocking cactuar pattern, and Nyx was going to have _words_ with Cor, about enabling the worst of Prompto's obsession, once he got over the fact the fucking thing was so goddamn _cute_ – because protocol demanded it. He'd never been anywhere near the higher floors of the Citadel, where the royal family dwelled, so he hadn't exactly known what to expect. The garden was a surprise, but he felt vaguely vindicated that, as the afternoon went on, most of the fancy clothes met the expected end at the hands of two very energetic children, one of whom was determined to teach the other the intricacies of the cactuar dance. 

It was all going pretty well, up until they'd put a snow cone in the Prince's hands and his first attempt to lick it had ended up toppling off the treat into the floor. 

“Ah, shit,” Prompto said almost philosophically, in such a fucking _Cor_ deadpan that it took all of Nyx's training and self-control to not burst out cackling on the spot. 

Prompto then proceeded to ignore the tomb-like silence all around as he offered the Prince his own icecream, smiling coaxingly and making little encouraging noises. Because Prompto. 

“Ah,” the King said – because of course this happened five minutes after the King arrived to see how things were going, and Nyx was not dying, but it was close – looking at him with an almost surprised look to his features, as if he was seeing him for the first time. He then shifted his eyes to Cor, who was ostensibly on Prince-guarding duty for the day, and then back to Nyx. “Well that's surprising.” 

“Uh,” Nyx replied eloquently, “...kids, right?” 

“Mm,” Regis replied, thoughtful, and then tilted his head to the slide just _so_ , as he gave Cor a weighted stare. “Congratulations are in order, it seems, my friend.” 

Cor met his stare and then very pointedly shrugged. Nyx bit the inside of his lip to keep quiet. Then streightened up at once, when the King shifted his gaze to him, considering. 

“I'm sober, your Majesty,” Cor said, just as the King opened his mouth to speak, looking supremely unamused. 

“Please be sure to amend that in my study,” the King replied, lips twitching, “at your earliest convenience.” 

“Yes, your Majesty,” Cor replied, in the tones of a man entrusted with a suicidal mission. 

Nyx decided he was a terrible person, because he was all too happy to collect Prompto after he said his goodbyes, cactuar tie wrapped up like a bandanna around his head, and left Cor to the tender mercies of the King. 

The fact Cor took it out on him when he came home, somewhere around two in the morning, with the sloppiest of all drunk fucks, was a plus in Nyx's books. 

* * *

Letho was significantly less amused than the King, when the best – worst – choice of Prompto's rapidly growing vocabulary became obvious to her. The worst – best – part was that he swore the same way Cor did: in a subdued, deadpan tone, and often as a response to something very minor, nothing that would warrant a tantrum of any sort. It was hilarious and made repriminding him for it all the harder, because the more people laughed at it, the more the little brat did it. 

“This is _your_ fault,” Letho told him, smacking his forehead with the heaviest of the books she was lending him. “Children are impressionable! You can't swear like a sailor around them!” He opened his mouth to argue, but she bopped his forehead again. “ _And stop laughing about it._ ” 

“Okay, okay!” Nyx sighed, raising his hands in surrender. He dutifully took on the armful of books she dropped into his hands, because Letho seemed to have a doorstopper on every possible aspect of childrearing, and most of the time he found them useful, but it was hard to appreciate them when he was getting smacked with them. He paused, grinning a little. “You gotta admit it's pretty damn funny, though.” 

He was subjected to the dreaded over-the-glasses glare for his trouble. 

* * *

“Look,” Nyx said, rubbing his nose as he endured the weight of Prompto's wide-eyed stare. “I'm not gonna tell you not to do it 'cause it's bad. I mean, it kinda is, but I do it all the time, and so does Cor. That's not... really fair. But it upsets people when you say things like that, Prom. And you hate upsetting people, right?” 

“'m sorry,” Prompto muttered, staring at his feet. 

“It's... okay, it's _not_ okay, that's the point,” Nyx tried, fumbling for words. “Just. Try, okay?” 

Prompto nodded meekly, and Nyx marveled at the fantastic guilt-trip power behind the gesture, even if objectively he knew he was doing the right thing. Cor took pity on him, looking up from his book with a sigh. 

“Prompto,” he said, waiting until the boy was looking at him to arch an eyebrow at him. “You may _think_ them. Just don't say them unless you _mean_ them.” 

Nyx glared exhasperatedly at him, though Prompto nodded slowly, thoughtfully. Nyx sighed, but for the moment at least, that was the matter settled. 

* * *

Nyx's life continued to be cactuars, only cactuars, for the next four months. It also continued to be flash deployments all over Claigne, with increasing support from the Crownsguard. Nyx was cool with the cactuars, because he'd either warmed up to them entirely, or because he was resigned to his fate. 

He was not cool with the increased hostilities between his men and Cor's, and after a particularly irritating incident where some of his idiots had started arguing with _his_ idiots, in the middle of a fight, Nyx had discovered he did have it in him, to chew people out like a proper field commander. 

“'Would you just fucking kill the goddamn thing?'” Cor read dispassonately from his report on the operation, and then slid his eyes to Nyx, lying on his side. 

The unspoken rule was not to bring work home. Home was all about cactuars and Prompto's determination to repaint their world green – and prickly. The tensions, however, had changed that. The more they pushed back, though, the deeper the resentment grew. Cor could order his men to do a great deal, but telling them to play nice didn't seem to be doing much. And though the loose hierarchy of the Kingslgaive usually suited Nyx rather well, it made him feel like a tyrant whenever he had to address the uncomfortable, rampaging Garulessa in the room. 

“Orders seemed unclear,” Nyx deadpanned, and grunted irritably when a hand reached down to scratch under the braids. “Felt some clarification was needed at that point.” 

Cor hummed in the back of his throat. 

“We could just... let them have at it,” he proposed slowly, “get it out of their system.” 

“You think that'll work?” 

Cor shrugged. 

“I'll talk with Clarus about it.” 

Which was how, _somehow_ , they ended up standing against each other in the Kingsglaive's training arena. Clarus insisted they could take upon themselves to work out the grudge into a friendly rivalry, giving their men something to root for that was far more close and personal than the nebulousness of patriotism and less raw than the war itself. Neither Cor nor Nyx were particularly convinced by it, but they both agreed that Clarus was probably a much better commander than both of them put together, so they went along with it anyway. 

They'd never fought against the other, though. They knew they made a formidable team, as demonstrated by their short tenure as hunters, when they had first brought Prompto back from Niflheim, and the few occasions Cor himself had joined the Kingsglaive in the frontlines. But it had never occurred to them to take their usual verbal sparring into a physical level. 

Well, it had, but it wasn't the sort of physical one did in public with an audience, anyway. 

The Crownsguard's training areas where wide, closed rooms full of weapons and training equipement. The Kingsguard's was an open area full of tall, rocky formations that emulated the landscape out in Duscae and provided them ample opportunity to practice warping and the magical gifts bestowed upon them by the King. Nyx had joked about having the home advantage, but he knew damn well it meant nothing because Cor was... well, Cor. 

“Do keep it friendly,” Clarus told them, as self-appointed referee for the little exercise. “As the spirit of the competition demands.” 

Nyx tried, he really did, he was using daggers instead of kukris, after all, and he supposed Cor was trying too, using a much shorter sword than usual and not outright killing him in two blows. Three quarters of the Crownsguard were present, solidly outnumbering the entirety of the Kingsglaive as they watched them scramble about, playing a very deadly-looking game of tag. Nyx was not used to having cheering during fights – he was admittedly guilty of providing his own sound effects, sometimes, if only to break the tension and make people laugh when things were going shitty – and by the scowl on Cor's face, neither was he. 

Then he managed to slip under the swing of Cor's sword, but before he could strike, Cor kicked him hard enough to be flung into one of the rocks scattered about. Cor blinked, seemingly surprised by his own reaction. Nyx bounced off the rock and rolled into the fall and onto his feet, coughing. 

“Well,” Cor said wryly, “that should wake you up at least.” 

Nyx knew the spirit the joke was meant to and took it as such. He still laughed though, sliding the daggers into their holsters and pulling out the kukris with a grin. 

“So you're gonna be a _bitch_ about this,” he said, snickering as Cor scowled at him. “Good to know.” 

There was a moment of stunned silence, before Cor barked a short, sharp laugh, and bared his teeth into a snarl Nyx took for a smile. 

Things got fun, from then on. They might or might not have forgotten about the audience, considering the fight degenerated into a showcase of their personal dirtiest tricks available. Cor's sword vasnished into crystals at some point, replaced by the familiar weight of his ridiculously long, ludicrously sharp usual blade. Nyx showcased exactly why Pelna coined the term warp-spammer for him in an official capacity. Cor cut through rock like it was butter. Nyx warped _him_ a few times, trying to throw him off and maybe make him puke. 

They realized they might or might not have gotten carried away, the moment Nyx scored a hit on Cor's side and Cor's reaction was a swing powerful enough to split the stone pillar at the center of the arena in half, sending it tumbling down on them. 

“Oh, shit,” Nyx muttered, and then wrapped an arm around Cor's back and warped them both up and away, until they ended up standing atop the wreck. “Repairs are coming out of your budget, by the way,” he added, as they surveyed the mess they'd left and the dumbstuck crowd around them. “But hey, draw?” 

Cor looked at him consideringly, and then casually shoved him off his perch, remorselessly watching him fall. 

“No.” 

Nyx cackled and warped away just before he hit the ground. 

* * *

Clarus found them in Cor's office, dirty, sweaty and relatively unharmed, considering the destruction they'd unleahed on each other, eating lunch. The fact Nyx was perched on the desk, and Cor was tolerating it, gave him pause. He recovered enough to frown disapprovingly, considering they had essentially ditched him and left him to deal with a deliriously excited gaggle of soldiers. 

“You and I have a very different understanding of just what the spirit of the competition demands,” he told them, in the driest tone he could muster. 

Nyx shrugged sheepishly, but Cor snorted, unrepentant. 

“Did it work?” 

Clarus sighed and took a seat, shrugging. 

“Hard to say, at this point,” he admitted with a wry smirk. “They would certainly appreciate a repeat performance.” 

Cor hummed in the back of his throat, and Nyx laughed. 

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” He teased, stretching a leg to nudge Cor. “You get off kicking my ass.” 

He realized what he said the moment Clarus spluttered. Cor shrugged. 

“I suppose I do,” he replied, and then turned his eyes to Clarus, frowning. “If everything else fails, we could just deploy them all into Leide, to hunt cactuars,” he deadpanned. 

Nyx choked on a laugh and kicked him, rather than nudge him, this time around. Clarus had the distinct feeling he was missing half of the joke, and stared. 

“Cactuars?” 

Nyx and Cor shared a look. 

“Cactuars fix everything,” they said, in an eerily unison deadpan. 

Clarus chose not to ask. 

* * *


	5. year v [cor]

* * *

_year v [cor]_

* * *

Cor hated political functions. 

Too many too important people in a single place, like a giant, neon target asking for disaster to strike. At least in Insomnia, there was the wall to get through, to deter most attempts. Gualdin Quay did not have the wall to keep it safe and sound, and so Cor and the best of his Crownsguard accompanied the Royal entourage to receive the visiting dignataries from Accordo. The whole thing was a clusterfuck of political loopholes, what with the fact Accordo had been part of the Empire for more than a century, and the only reason the treaties remained was some archaic, stupid, possibly magically binding ridiculousness that Cor would not dare try and contemplate while sober. 

The joke was that his entire life was a political function, at this point. 

Still, the signing had gone smoothly enough, no one had to be killed, and now all that was left was return the King and the Prince back to safety. Regis would return with Clarus and the brunt of the Crownsguard, while Cor personally drove the Prince and his attendants on a separate route. He disliked the idea of traveling at night, considering the increasing reports of daemons prowling around Leide, but at least they'd be a less obvious target under the cover of darkness. 

“Why couldn't Prompto come?” Noctis asked him, oblivious to the tension gathering into a knot in the back of Cor's neck. “I promised to teach him how to fish. It would have been fun.” 

Cor contemplated the best way to explain to the Prince that neither him or Nyx were about to let Prompto beyond the safety of the wall while he still didn't know how to properly defend himself, no matter who else was in attendance. 

Then the vangard car was abruptly flung into the air and Cor sank the brake pedal to the ground. 

“See to the Prince,” he barked at the wide-eyed attendants as he threw the door open, “and be prepared to run.” 

It was bad. 

Cor had fought Nagas and their ilk before, and hated every tortous second of it. This was worse. The daemon was enormous, the coils of her tail large enough to dwarf the cars with ease. His only comfort, ridiculous as it was, were the six swords she brandished in wide, sweeping arcs as she screamed. Swords, at least, were a thing he could deal with. It was the rest of her he wasn't entirely sure he knew how to handle. 

Then, because the night clearly hadn't gone sour enough, a lone, imperial dropship appeared in the distance. It turned all its lights on the daemon, making her screech and writhe in recoil, and then began to drop at an alarming rate. Cor avoided being trampled by the monster's tail, trying to lure her attention away from the convoy behind him, and realized the ship wasn't stopping. Seconds before it crashed straight into the daemon's upper body, Cor saw a figure jump off it, landing with a roll nearby. 

“Yeah, _eat that_ , you bitch!” The girl yelled as the daemon was thrown down, momentarily stunned by the resulting explosion. 

Then she ran at it with a lance that was nearly twice as long as she was tall. Cor decided to ask questions later, and ran after her, intent on abusing the daemon's vulnerable state. He couldn't help but notice she was good, though, swinging the polearm with deadly grace, despite how unwieldy its size seemed to be. 

“Watch out,” she said, blowing her bangs off her face as she leaped away as the creature recovered and screamed again. “She likes to play with _fire_.” 

The swords in the daemon's hands ignited. 

“Duly noted,” Cor deadpanned, and leaped in, swinging his sword as hard as he could. 

It was enough to send the daemon reeling back some more. The girl broke into a dead run, and leaped just as she reached Cor. Cor had a fantastical moment of blank incomprehension when she stepped _on his head_ to boost herself up almost thirty feet into the air, right above their enemy. Then she twirled her lance until the blade was pointing to the ground, wrapped a leg around it and began spinning as she went down. 

“A dragoon,” Cor muttered, watching her fall. It would have probably done a devastating amount of damage, all things considered, had the daemon not avoided a direct hit slithering sideways, considering the pavement cracked from impact. “A woefully _inexperienced_ dragoon,” Cor amended with a sigh, and then ran forward to catch the incoming blades before they got to her. 

“Shit,” the girl said, trying to pull her lance from where it was buried nearly a foot into solid ground. 

“Any time you feel like it,” he deadpanned, taking one hand off the hilt of his sword and reaching up to grab the blunt side of the blade near the tip, feeling his feet start to slide back as the daemon snarled in his face. 

“Gotcha,” she said, as she finally dislodged her weapon from the ground and swung it around, aiming the battered blade at the creature's head. 

“Great,” Cor grunted, shifted his footing and then heaved with his not inconsiderable might as he threw the creature back just long enough to turn, grab the stunned teenager and sprint away from the wave of fire the creature belched at them. 

“Hey!” She snarled, squirming like an eel in his hold, “I'm not done fighting!” 

Cor felt the telltale tingle of Regis' magic in the air as he reached the crowd of cars parked around the one containing the Prince, and looked up just in time to see the bright light of the Royal Arms swirling in the air. 

“That's too bad,” he said, putting the girl down, “the fight is over.” 

He caught Clarus' eye as he and Regis strolled past the cars, his ridiculously oversized sword held loosely in one hand, and allowed himself a smirk. 

“For old time's sake, my friend?” Clarus asked, his own mouth twisted into a wry smile. 

“Admitting we're old, are we?” Cor retorted, and sprinted at the daemon again, zigzagging around Clarus' straightforward charge. 

It wasn't an easy fight, exactly, but Cor could tell Regis was _pissed_. The transluscent swords were unrelenting, and though Clarus saw considerably less combat than Cor, he was still by no means a slouch. Cor sank his sword all the way to the hilt into the creature's human-like back, just as Clarus landed a devastating swing that slit most of her coils open. Then Regis took her head ruthlessly, his own hand holding the spectral sword as he finally put the daemon out of her misery. 

They stood there a moment, panting for breath as the carcass melted into flecks of dusk. 

“Don't get cocky,” the girl said, breaking the silence as she walked up to them, holding her spear in a white-knuckled grip. “It's not over yet.” She stared up at Regis with narrowed eyes, jaw set. “You're the King, right? Like... the Crystal's King.” 

“And who might you be?” Clarus asked, one eyebrow arched. 

“None of your damn business,” she replied almost cordially, not even bothering to look at him. 

Cor decided, quite abruptly, that he liked her. He could tell Clarus realized this, because he felt the weight of his exhasperated glare fall on him. He shrugged, expression carefully kept blank. Regis arched an eyebrow, ignoring the antics of his closest friends. 

“Yet you have business with me, young lady?” He asked, almost casually, despite the toll of the battle. 

“Ain't a lady, but yeah,” the girl nodded. “You and the Oracle are friends, I imagine? Because your lady friend is about to have a really _shitty_ day.” 

“And you know this, _how_ , exactly?” Clarus insisted, looking down at her with a peeved frown. 

“An excellent question!” She replied, blinking, “also way above your pay grade, Gramps.” Cor resisted the urge to snort. It was a very strong urge. Clarus face flushed with outrage, and she ignored him entirely, arching an eyebrow at Regis. “Listen, if you're not an idiot... and I really hope you're not, because then we're all pretty much fu-- _screwed_ , you might have already figured this,” she waved a hand around the widespread destruction caused by the daemon, “wasn't an accident. The Accordo treaty was just bait to get you and your kid out of the safety of your precious wall. Meanwhile, there's a fleet of twenty thousand MTs flying straight to Tenebrae and you better believe there's not gonna be much left standing when they're done. My people are running interference best they can to slow them down, but. I figured you lot might as well. You know. _Get to it_.” 

“Your people,” Regis repeated, skeptical. 

She sighed loudly and rolled her eyes with a fantastic flourish. 

“Look, my loyalty is usually to whoever signs my checks, so long as my checks are on time,” she explained, in the tones of a very exhasperated parent dealing with a stubborn three year old. Cor was intimately familiar with that tone, matter of fact. “But I kinda draw the line when people start talking about shit that will literally _end the world_. So let's just say my former employer had a very loose tongue and I'm not on board with killing off the last surviving vestige that proves the gods give one solitary fuck about us poor mortals.” 

“An imperial mercenary,” Clarus said flatly, glaring down his nose at her. “And you expect us to believe anything you say?” 

The girl remained staunchly unimpressed by the display. 

“I don't care what _you_ believe,” she snorted, and then pointed a finger right at Regis. “I just hope _he_ 's not an idiot about this.” She squinted. “Did you miss the part where they're trying to _kill the Oracle_? Please tell me you don't need visual aid, I suck at drawing.” 

“Assuming that is true,” Regis began, sighing. 

“Which it _is_ ,” she interjected, with another glorious eyeroll to match her tone. 

“Indeed,” Regis went on, lips twitching, “if that is the case, what you're proposing, young lady, is an invation.” 

“Still not a lady,” she pointed out, and then shrugged. “And you're at war anyway.” There was a long, significant silence, as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, all but vibrating with expectant energy. Then she seemed to decide it had been too long, because she rolled her eyes once more. “Ugh! _Fine_ , be an idiot, then! I have to do everything myself.” She raised her hand to her mouth, speaking to the bracelet on her wrist. “They're no good, we're moving out.” 

Cor saw her crouch and moved to try and grab her, but she slipped through his hands and grabbed onto a rope dangling from the dropship high above. The dropship that had been floating over their heads for who knew how long. The lights flared to life, blinding them for a moment as she swung her way up, and then the ship took off while she was still hanging off the side. 

“Cor,” Regis said, lips thin. 

Cor sighed, already pulling out his phone. 

“Yes, your Majesty.” 

* * *

Tenebrae was burning, when they got there. 

Cor wasn't exactly surprised, but he wasn't thrilled either. He did note the traces of a massive sabotage campaign, beneath the appereance of a large battle. The mercenary force holding the advance of the Empire was, if nothing else, very good at what they were doing. 

“You take me on the nicest dates,” Nyx deadpanned at him under his breath, as they looked over the battlefield leading up to Fenestala Manor. 

“I know,” Cor replied, shrugging. 

“So how you wanna do this?” Nyx asked with a small frown. “Cut a path straight to the manor and then out?” 

“Ensuing the safety of the Royal family and their household is our main priority,” Cor said, lips twitching. “According to the leader of the defense force, the Empire is out for the Oracle, so a direct confrontation might not be in our best interests.” 

Nyx hummed in the back of his throat, nodding. 

“You know the Queen, right?” He sighed. “Let's do it by the numbers then. We'll engage the Empire from the back, provide support for the main defense force. You go in and lead them to the extraction point. We'll rendezvous on your signal.” 

“Commander,” Pelna said nervously, approaching before Cor could reply. Nyx did not roll his eyes because he liked Pelna quite a bit, but he was very keenly aware the use of rank was directly a result of Cor's presence. “There's someone on the line calling for you, sir.” 

Nyx resisted the urge to shove Cor's shoulder and tell him to stop terrorizing his men with his presence alone, when he turned to stare at Pelna with a small frown, and Pelna seemed to shrink with nerves on the spot. 

“Let's see,” Nyx sighed, nodding at Pelna and following him to the makeshift communications tent he'd set up in preparation for the skirmish. 

“Command's listening,” Pelna said into his headset, “go ahead.” 

“Not entirely an idiot, is he? Your King?” A familiar voice echoed. Cor's lips twitched a sliver as Nyx stared down at the speakers. “Listen, can one of you official types come in here and convince her Holiness that we're trying to help? You'd think the fact the Empire is mowing us down would be enough of a clue, but the entire lot is locked up tight in the manor and refuse to listen. I've got ships down in the canyon ready to get us out of this shithole and I'm not opposed to give you guys a ride home along with them, but seriously, it's like talking to a freaking _wall_.” 

“Your new friend?” Nyx asked Cor, smirking. 

Cor shrugged, and waited for Nyx to nod at him before stepping up the mic. 

“Roger that,” he said, “we'll meet you there. Anything we should expect?” 

“Ulldor is running the op,” the girl said wryly. “The guy's a firm believer that there's no kill like overkill so, I'd suggest you avoid a direct confrontation if you can. We've managed to stall the heavy hitters, but they're still inbound and I, for once, would rather be in the air when that happens. Pretty sure nothing except your shiny wall could stand up to that. Now get your asses on the move, please and thank you.” 

The line went dead. 

“You trust her?” Nyx asked as he watched Cor's expression shift into a thoughtful frown. 

“I probably shouldn't,” Cor replied, but nodded. 

“Right,” Nyx said, as if that was good enough for him. He turned to address his men. “Okay, we're almost sure we're not walking into a trap, but let's just keep our heads above water, anyway. The Marshal will head straight for the manor and assess the situation with these mercenaries. I'll run backup for him. You lot?” He smirked. “ _Ruin their day_. Interference rather than direct assaults, and be ready to move out on my word.” 

“When you say ruin their day,” Crowe asked, eyes glinting, “do you mean ruin their day your way, or mine?” 

Nyx smiled. 

“Yours.” 

* * *

Queen Sylva was considerably more willing to trust Cor's word and lead her family and her servants anywhere he said. The young mercenary commander muttered rudely about it, much to Nyx's amusement, as she guided them out of the manor and towards her modest fleet of stolen imperial dropships. 

“Severance package,” she explained, when she caught Nyx staring. 

She barked orders at men twice her age, Cor noted, and they obeyed without question. It was going well enough, as they waited for the last of Nyx's men to reach their location. So of course Ulldor cornered them as the last of the Kingsglaive filed into a ship, wearing a massive-looking magitek armor. 

“Go, go, go!” The girl yelled, hurrying along both her men and their guests with a glare, “head for Insomnia and don't look back! Don't get shot down, either! I'll be pissed!” 

Cor and Nyx moved in to engage the threat and stall it long enough to allow all the ships to take off. The canyon was narrow enough they had to fly off one by one, in single file, and that took time they currently didn't have. 

“The _nicest_ dates,” Nyx snorted, kukris at hand as he ran alongside Cor towards the canyon's mouth. 

“Good evening, gentlemen! My name is Caligo Ulldor, and I will be your executioner today,” Caligo announced over the loud speakers. “Do not feel bad, your deaths will greatly add to my immortal legend! The Emperor himself will-” 

Cor barked a laugh as Nyx warp-striked straight into the armor, interrupting the tirade and nearly toppling it off its feet. 

“You,” the girl said, blinking as Nyx retreated back to where they stood, “I _like_ you.” 

“Less chatting, more fighting,” Cor deadpanned, rolling his eyes as Nyx bowed graciously at the compliment. 

“No need to get jealous,” she laughed, “I like you too.” 

Cor and Nyx fell into step comfortably, as expected, but Cor was surprised at the ease with which the girl joined them, keeping up as best she could. She was good, if entirely too brash at times. She reminded him of himself, at that age, ready to fight anything that stood in his way. And quite a few things that didn't, too. She was still inexperienced, however, and Caligo, for all his arrogant boasting, _wasn't_. 

Nyx warped to catch her, when one of her attempts at diving with her lance got her smacked midair and sent flying straight towards the canyon's wall. 

“Cor!” Nyx called out, just as he twisted mid air, throwing her in his general direction before he warped away. 

Cor saw her coming at him, feet first, and turned the sword in his hands, catching her on the blunt side as she landed into a crouch, balanced on it. 

“Going up, thanks,” she said, and he _swung,_ flinging her nearly high enough to reach the rim of the canyon. 

Nyx struck Caligo from behind, just as Cor turned the sword for another strike, hitting him head on. The girl fell, then, much more accurate on an stationary target than she'd been, fighting the snake daemon. The damage was as impressive as Cor had theorized it would be, and Nyx barely had time to warp in and get her out of the blast radius as the armor exploded thunderously around them. 

“That was fun,” she said, grinning as she propped her lance up her shoulder, around the same time the last of the dropships approached them. “Let's get you lot home now, yeah?” 

Nyx laughed, because he was Nyx, and Cor basked in the sound as he tried his best not to imagine the sheer political mess this was going to cause. 

He _hated_ politics. 

* * *

“I call dibs on her,” Nyx told him, after they had safely delivered the Queen and her children to the King and his council, and Aranea – she'd finally conceeded to tell Nyx her name, on the flight home – and her mercenaries to Clarus. 

Cor arched an eyebrow at him, carrying a sleeping Prompto, whom Monica had put in his arms the moment she saw her commander officer and determined he was safe and sound. 

“Dibs,” he deadpanned, absently rocking in place and ignoring the massive drool spot slowly spreading all over his shoulder. 

“What are _you_ gonna do with her?” Nyx asked tauntingly, one eyebrow arched as he fiddled with his phone to take a picture. “Put her on security detail? Please. She's a frontline fighter. She belongs in the Kingsglaive.” 

“She's sixteen, at most,” Cor pointed out, frowning. 

“We started younger,” Nyx replied, shrugging and then smiling at his phone, pleased with his efforts. “And I called dibs.” 

“You're awful certain she'll stay,” Cor mused, running a hand through Prompto's hair as he shifted in his arms, not quite waking up. 

“The King was pretty pleased,” Nyx said, arching an eyebrow. 

“You misunderstand,” Cor snorted, “I don't doubt Regis will offer to take her and her people in, particularly after such a good performance.” He rolled his eyes. “I'm just not sure she'll agree.” 

“She burned her bridges with the Empire pretty thoroughly, though.” Nyx shrugged. “Who else is going to hire them, if not Lucis?” 

“Lots of people, actually,” Aranea said, entering the room without knocking. She arched an eyebrow at both of them, taking a moment to blink at Cor and Prompto, surprised. She recovered quickly enough. “I'll have you know I'm worth my weight in gold.” 

“And so modest about it, too,” Cor deadpanned, arching an eyebrow when she shrugged. 

“Modesty is for people who don't make a living pandering how good they are,” she pointed out, then frowned. “So. Uh. Sorry to interrupt,” she nodded at Prompto, still giving Cor weird looks for it. Cor stoically ignored the scrutiny. “But the big guy, you know, Clarent?” 

“Clarus,” Nyx and Cor corrected automatically. 

“Yeah, him. He said either one of you could hire me, and I'd like to know if we're sticking around or not. Got mouths to feed and all.” She nodded at Prompto again. “You sympathize, I'm sure. Oh,” she added, shrugging. “He also said whoever didn't should go and check on how the Oracle and her family are settling in, too. So.” 

Cor sighed and passed Prompto into Nyx arms, ignoring the smug smirk at Clarus' tacit support of his claim, before he stalked away without another word. 

The last thing he heard, as he walked through the door, was Aranea snorting and Nyx spluttering. 

“You two fucking or something?” 

It was going to be a long day. 

* * *


	6. year v [aranea]

* * *

_year v [aranea]_

* * *

It was not, on the whole, too terrible, working for the Kingsglaive. They got paid in time, they got barracks to live in, and they got taken out on ridiculous missions out to ruin the Empire's day. Well, the others did, anyway. Nyx had somehow found a loophole to leave Aranea behind _every single time_ , and she had been getting quite pissed about it, up until the jerk went and left to investigate sightings of MTs around the Rock of Ravatogh and then just. 

Didn't come back. 

That was three months ago. Aranea was not the mushy-feelings kind of person, but she had to admit she was... maybe a little... concerned? About how nobody seemed to be concerned? 

“The Marshal forbade it,” Monica told her, when she brought it up during one of their, by now ritual, drives from whatever den of disaster Aranea had been kicked out, to Cor's apartment. “The last time Nyx got himself declared dead, it took him nearly a year to... what was the term, undeaden himself.” 

“ _Undeaden_ ,” Aranea deadpanned, squinting because, she had to admit, she could totally see Nyx Ulric saying that with a straight face. 

Monica caught her eye in the rearview mirror. 

“Precisely.” She frowned. “...you could look in the least bit contrite.” 

Aranea shrugged. 

“What's the point?” She snorted. “He'll know I'm faking it.” 

Monica sighed, because they both knew it was the truth. Aranea did her best to exude smugness as she sank into the backseat, watching the city lights pass them by. The rest of ride was silent, as this as the sixth time this week they found themselves in this particular scenario, and for all her faults – and she had many, in Aranea's experience, starting by the fact she was such a stickler for rules – Monica was smart enough to know a lost cause when she saw it. 

Cor was waiting for them in the lobby, when they reached the apartment complex. 

“Good evening, Marshal,” Monica said, as she approached, one hand firm on Aranea's back. “I'm sorry for the disturbance.” 

Cor snorted. 

“Well, at least someone is,” he muttered dryly, when Aranea shrugged under the scrutiny. “I'll take it from here, Monica. See you on Monday.” 

“Likewise, Sir,” Monica sighed, lips twitching as she gave Aranea a pointed look. “ _Miss_ Highwind.” 

“Might see you tomorrow, for all you know,” Aranea told her, wiggling her eyebrows threateningly until Monica rolled her eyes at her. 

She stood by Cor as they watched Monica stroll out of the building in silence, and then shrugged the moment she felt the weight of his stare on her. 

“It was a joke,” she defended herself, “you Lucians don't know how to take jokes.” 

“Obviously not,” Cor deadpanned, and then twitched an eyebrow just a bit. 

Aranea sighed as she started walking towards the lift. 

“Look I was just... out drinking with some friends, and we might have gotten a bit rowdy,” she explained, carefully not looking at him as he used his key to open the door into the elevator. She walked into the small cubicle with the ease of practice. “The owner got all over my face about it and then he demanded to know how old I am.” 

“How old are you again?” Cor asked absently, knowing full well she was not going to answer the question, because she hadn't answered any sort of question that related to her personally or where she came from or why the hell she was the leader of a band of mercenaries currently contracted out to the Kingsglaive. 

“This week I'm the sexiest eighty-four year old you've ever met,” she replied, grinning as she spied the smallest twitch in the corner of his lip. “I even got an ID card to match. Biggs did his best,” she said fondly, pulling out a cutout square from what clearly had once been a carton box from takeout, that read proudly: ARANEA FUCKOFF, AGE: 84, BOOZE: ALL OF IT. Cor snorted, quite eloquently, as she slid the card back into her pockets. “Anyway, owner got prissy about it and called the 'guard. Guys left in a hurry 'cause jail food sucks, but I figured someone ought to stay and say hi to Monica when she arrived.” She gave Cor a side-look. “It'd be rude not to, wouldn't it?” She snickered. “'sides, what are you gonna do to me? Spank me?” 

“The thought has been given the consideration it deserves,” Cor replied sincerely, just as the elevator's doors opened to reveal the door into the apartment. 

Prompto peeked at them over the edge of the couch, considering, but when he realized it was Aranea walking through the door, he sat up properly, grinning brightly. 

“Nea!” He said, sliding off the couch and rushing in to stand up before her. 

“ _Ara_ nea,” she corrected, putting her hands on her hips as she leaned in to properly scoff at him. “Talk proper or not at all, Blondie. What are you, _five_?” 

Prompto beamed proudly. 

“Yes!” 

Aranea rolled her eyes and patted his head, making her way to the couch. Prompto followed, grabbing onto her hand and then curling up against her side like the clingy little shit he was. She scoffed and dutifully ignored Cor's pointed, irritating looks as best she could. 

“You're staying?” Prompto asked, hopeful because he was an idiot who liked _everyone_ apparently, even her. 

“Apparently, since I'm doing...” she sighed dramatically, and then arched an eyebrow at Cor. “What are we calling this again?” 

“Community service,” Cor deadpanned, settling back into a chair in the living room table, where a veritable forest of paperwork was quite clearly thriving. 

“Yeah, you can call it what it is,” Aranea snorted, folding her arms over her chest. “Blatant fucking nepotism.” 

Cor gave her a look that invited her to carry out her sentence – the same one she'd endured, all previous times she'd been escorted into his apartment by Monica, babysitting his dumb kid – in silence. Aranea tilted her chin up defiantly. 

“What's netopism?” Prompto asked, blinking. 

“Nepotism,” Aranea corrected with a snort, and then nodded over at Cor. “And your dad's _face_ is nepotism.” 

Prompto ignored the fact she'd not answered his question to frown mightily. 

“Cor's not my _dad_ ,” he said, with enough conviction to move mountains. “Cor's my _Cor_.” The little ballsy shit had the nerve to roll his eyes at her. “You're so dumb, Nea.” 

“ _Your_ face is dumb,” Aranea retorted and wiggled her fingers at him. 

She didn't need to actually touch him. He shrieked and scrambled away, laughing as if he was being tickled to death, disappearing down the corridor. Aranea sighed. 

“Does it break your heart every time he says that?” She asked, grinning as Cor sighed and fixed her with a profoundly tired look. 

“Every time,” he said, deadpan sarcasm all but dripping down his mouth. “But I will find a way to get over the disappointment, somehow.” He pursed his lips when she laughed. “Go do your community service, Aranea.” 

She shook her head and went to find Prompto. 

“Aye, aye, Marshal.” 

* * *

Aranea lowered her fist on Prompto's head. Not quite a smack, proper, but also not a pat. She did not pat the brat's head, no matter how stupidly fluffy his hair was. She had an image to maintain. 

“Look,” she said, mouth twisted into a frown. “If you're gonna cry, then _cry_.” 

She'd much prefer he didn't, honestly. She hated crying, especially from children. But he'd had the stupid teary-eyed look for days now – this was now her fourth evening of community service this week, but in her defense, she had jackshit to do at this point and, deadpan and all, Cor's couch was better than an empty room in the barracks – and it was pissing her off. 

“'m a big boy,” Prompto muttered, sniffling valiantly as he stared down at his feet. 

Aranea decided she was not being paid enough for this shit, even though she was technically not being paid at all, what with it being her only alternative to being thrown in jail for disturbing the peace. Lucians, honestly. 

“You're a big _baby_ ,” she replied, nonplussed. “And you miss your idiot of a dad.” 

Prompto shoved her, surprisingly hard. 

“Take that back!” He demanded, outraged, as the tears gathered copiously in his eyes. “My dad's the best!” 

Aranea snorted. 

“Your dad's an _idiot_ ,” she insisted, “can't even make his damn way home on time!” The sniffling intensified. She let her hand fall on his dumb, empty head again. “But he's a likable idiot, so it's okay if you miss him.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “I bet even _Cor_ misses him.” 

The sniffling then became soft, choked little sobs. Aranea stared intently at him. Then the dam broke and the boy wailed like an air raid siren. She rolled eyes as he also clung to her leg, tiny hands holding onto her pants with a vice grip, rubbing his snotty, teary face all over her thigh. She looked up as the door opened, and found Cor and his best quietly vicious scowl looming there, questioningly. 

Aranea put a hand on the boy's head, and sighed, holding Cor's stare with a small wry smirk. 

“There, there, you blubbering goddamn pansy; he's late, not _dead_.” 

Cor stood there a moment longer, considering, and then sighed. 

“Prompto,” he said quietly, walking further into the room, and the boy stiffened. 

He looked up at Cor with wide, red eyes, lip trembling. It was ugly crying, full of snot and tears and he was probably gonna get the hiccups, too. Cor tilted his head slightly to the side, and Prompto instantly detached himself from her leg, to go slump right into Cor's arms. She'd been wrong, apparently. _Now_ he sounded like an air raid siren, loud and miserable as Cor pulled him into his arms. 

“I'm ordering dinner,” Aranea sighed, sticking her hands into the pockets of her pants. “And you're paying for it.” 

Cor offered half a shrug, and went to sit on the bed, inconsolable wreck of a child in his arms. 

* * *

When she heard news that Nyx and his team – more than half of which was _her_ team – had finally returned, Aranea headed to his office with the single-minded determination to scream at him until he doubled their pay just to make her stop. 

“Due respect, sir,” she heard Wedge say, in that pacifying tone of his that always made her want to punch something when it was directed at her. “This ain't working.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, Wedge,” Nyx snorted back. “No one said anything about facing the wrath of the gods. _I know_.” 

“No... I mean, yes,” Wedge laughed, comfortable, like they were friends. Aranea wrinkled her nose, and didn't burst through the door, when he added: “But I also mean, you know, this. The formal soldier gig.” 

“We've been talking with the boys,” Biggs said, “and it's just. We appreciate the work, sir, you've been good to us. But.” 

“We're a band of thieving, screaming thugs, basically,” Wedge snorted. “This whole uphold the law thing, it might... it might not be for us.” 

“You want to leave,” Nyx said quietly, though he didn't sound upset. “I mean, if it's about the godly wrath thing, I can't say I blame you, though I'll be sorry to see you go. You're good men to have in a fight.” 

“Thank you, sir,” Biggs replied, voice hushed like he was embarrassed. 

“I'm surprised, though,” Nyx went on, “I'd have expected Aranea to be the one to tell me this.” 

Aranea was wondering about that, too. 

“...about the missus,” Wedge said, awkward. “The boys, we've been talking, sir. We'd... we'd like her to stay.” 

“She's safe, here,” Biggs went on, as Aranea clenched her hand on the door's handle, knuckles white. “Living to fight, to earn enough for food and maybe a roof on your head at night, we're used to that. It's what we do. But the boss would have wanted more, for her daughter.” 

“We promised we'd look after her,” Wedge sighed, and Aranea imagined he was doing that stupid, forlorn-looking thing of his, staring down at his shoes. “And we've tried our best! Taught her anything we rightly could, 'cause she's smart like that. But we can't keep her safe. Not like this.” 

“We think she'd be happy, here,” Biggs said, swallowing hard. “Happier than with us. It's the kind of life her Ma would have wanted for her.” 

Aranea kicked the door open, before Nyx could reply. 

“If my Ma wanted to have say in how I live,” she snarled, glaring at all three of them, “she would be here, now.” 

“Boss-” 

“Shut up!” She glowered, entire being shaking as she resisted temptation to summon her lance and throw it at their heads. “You wanna leave? Fine, assholes, then go! No one _cares_.” 

“Aranea,” Nyx began, hands raised placatingly. 

Aranea spat on the ground and then ran. 

“Boss!” 

* * *

“You've made quite the mess,” Cor said, walking up to stand behind her. “Again.” 

Aranea shrugged, hands holding onto the edge as she swung her feet slowly. Several feet further ahead, the bright beam of light that powered the wall buzzed with magic. She was sitting on one of the highest bridges connecting the tips of the Citadel around the beacon. 

“Fuck off,” she snarled over her shoulder, and held onto her anger tighter when she realized her voice was cracking. 

Cor shrugged and walked over to sit next to her. Not close enough to touch, though. He pulled out his phone and typed a short message, before he slid it back into the inside of his jacket. Aranea reached a hand and tried to shove him sideways. He didn't budge, not even a little, because he was a solid wall of muscles and stubbornness, and she hated him for it, but what mattered was the gesture itself. 

“Fine,” she snorted, pulling her knees up. “Go on, lecture away, Marshal. Tell me they're just trying to do what's best for me.” 

“Well,” Cor replied, shrugging. “They are.” 

“Fuck off,” Aranea snarled, glaring. “And who told them it was? Why are they so sure they know what's best? They don't know _shit_.” 

Cor shrugged. 

“No, they don't.” 

Aranea stared, anger losing its track at that. She hadn't expected that reply. Cor shrugged again, when he caught the look she was giving him. 

“Here's the thing,” he sighed, frowning up at the pillar of light, “about raising kids. No one knows what's best for them. Parenting is just... a constant spiral of doing things in good faith and hoping you're not fucking them up too badly as you go along.” 

“That's a really stupid way of doing things,” Aranea muttered, frowning at her feet. 

“Yes,” Cor sighed. “But it's the best we've come up with, so far.” 

“They could have _talked_ to me, first,” she said, frowning. “I'm not a goddamn kid.” 

Rather than argue – she hated the fact he refused to do the things she was bracing for – Cor put a hand on her shoulder and shoved lightly. 

“Come along,” he said, unfolding gracefully back to his feet. 

“Time to face the music, huh?” Aranea sighed, trying to smirk and not quite getting there. 

“No,” Cor said, arching an eyebrow as she stared again. “We're going out.” 

“Out?” Aranea stood up, dusting her knees. 

Cor shrugged. 

“Out.” 

* * *

Out meant Leide, apparently. Aranea did her best not to squirm in her seat, watching the landscape pass them by. She was tempted to fuss with the radio, if only to fill the silence with _something_ , but Cor was being weird and she wasn't sure she wanted to make him get _weirder_ . They reached Hammerhead just as the sun was starting to set. Cor still hadn't explained what the hell they were supposed to be doing there, or why. 

Aranea blinked when an old geezer walked out of the garage and unceremoniously pulled Cor into a hug. Aranea was under the impression you just didn't do that, unless you were Nyx or Prompto, but apparently she'd been wrong. She braced herself, ready to bite if necessary, though, just in case the old guy got any ideas about trying to hug _her_. Instead, he took one good look at her face, frowning like he could read her mind, and then cuffed Cor upside the head, like he was a misbehaving brat. 

Aranea was lost and vaguely irritated that none of these people ever did what she expected them to. 

“You survived,” Cor told her the next morning, as they trekked away from Hammerhead and the road, and into the wilderness. “But someone else didn't.” 

Aranea thought of her mother, smirking smugly and shoving her into Biggs' arms, before she turned her back on them and disappeared. She clenched her hands into fists. 

“Is this what this is?” She growled, kicking dirt at him. “You take me out here and we have a little fucking heart-to-heart so I spill out all my sordid, tragic past?” 

“Not really,” Cor snorted, as if amused by the notion. “I just know what it looks like, survival at someone else's expense.” He arched an eyebrow, when she only stared suspiciously at him. “How else do you think I got a ridiculous title like _The Immortal_ , if not by surviving when everyone else didn't?” 

Aranea pressed her lips into a line, annoyed at the fact he had a point. 

“So what do you do?” She asked after maybe an hour of silence. “After you survive?” 

“Pick a fight with something that could kill me,” Cor replied, as they approached the canyon. “I reckon, if I was really not meant to survive, it'll do the job for me.” 

“And if you survive again?” 

Cor shrugged. 

“Then I just keep going.” 

There was a Bandersnatch nestling at the bottom of the canyon. Aranea had never seen one from up close; it was easily the size of a _bus_. They stopped just at the edge of the rim, looking down at the monster roaring up a storm down below. Cor motioned with his hand, as if he were inviting her to enter a room first, not to jump into a fight with an angry, vicious monstrosity with entirely too many spikes on its hide. 

“You're not coming?” Aranea asked, blinking. 

“I'm not the one having an existential crisis,” Cor replied, arching an eyebrow down at her. “But holler if it's too much and you've decided you don't want to die.” 

Aranea shoved him, hard. He still refused to budge. 

“Fuck off,” she snorted, and summoned her lance to her hand as she leaped into the fight. 

* * *

Aranea slid to her knees as the Bandersnatch roared its last, collapsing before her. She was sweaty and sore and exhausted, and Cor was an asshole who hadn't helped, at all, even those few times it had seemed like she was going to end up as the damn thing's lunch after all. Bastard. 

“Better?” Cor asked her, strolling into the den with the same careless air he strolled everywhere. 

_Bastard._

“Yeah,” Aranea replied, head bowed, because it was. She frowned. “Thanks.” 

Cor shrugged. 

“What are you going to do now?” He asked, coming to a stop at her side. 

She squinted up at him. 

“You're actually bothering to ask?” She taunted, though it didn't come up as sharp as she had originally intended. “What if I say I want to leave?” 

Cor shrugged again, more pointedly this time. 

“Just took down a fully grown, brooding Bandersnatch on your own,” he pointed out, one eyebrow arched slightly. “If you want to go, then go.” 

“Maybe I should,” she muttered, shifting so she was sitting with her legs crossed. She bit the inside of her lip, thinking. “What would you do?” 

“When I was your age?” He snorted. “Whatever the hell I wanted.” 

She barked a short, sharp laugh. It came out a little wet, underneath. 

“What I want,” she mused, licking her lips, “is to go home, pick a fight with Biggs and Wedge and then go out there and get hired to kill monstrous shit everyone's too afraid to fight.” She laughed wetly again, and rubbed roughly at her eyes. “But I don't think that's on the table anymore.” 

“Aranea,” Cor said, quiet, “how old are you?” 

She was silent for a long, long time. 

“...fifteen next month,” she muttered, staring intently at her shoes. 

Cor didn't yell at her. She almost didn't expect him to, but the urge to flinch was too ingrained. He hummed in the back of his throat. 

“I'll make you a deal,” he said, instead, and twitched the corner of his lip into a wry smile when she squinted at him. “Five years,” he added, holding the stare with his own. “You stay, you learn, you get better. Then you can do whatever you want, no strings attached.” His eyes softened a sliver, as she swallowed hard. “If they're worth it, they'll be waiting for you.” 

She rubbed her eyes again, refusing to acknowledge the tears or the knot of thorns stuck in her throat. She stood up and glared up at him, defiant. 

“And if they're not?” She forced herself to ask. 

“Then you'll be worth anything you want, by then.” 

“You're an idiot,” she declared, trying and failing to keep her shoulders from shaking. “And I'm not sleeping five years on your goddamn couch, so you better buy me a bed. A comfy one!” She bit at the sob trying to claw its way through her throat. “And I'm not babysitting your dumb kid for free.” 

“We'll see,” Cor mused softly, stepping closer but waiting until she reached out to hug him to put his arms around her shoulders. 

“And I'm _not_ going to call you dad,” she snarled into his chest, fingers digging into his back. 

Cor snorted. 

“Somehow,” he deadpanned, voice as dry as hers was wet, “I'll manage to survive the disappointment.” 

Aranea laughed, and Cor was gracious enough to not point out the fact it was more like bawling than anything else. 

* * *

“They'll be fine,” Nyx told her, as they watched her family fly off into the distance, the awkward, stilted goodbyes done. “Ezma pays good money for skilled fighters, and the job is almost as fun.” 

She'd been ready to fight, by the time they'd made their way to Insomnia. To argue her case and throw about her list of demands. Nyx, much like Cor, refused to do what she expected. He'd looked at Cor in the eye, arched an eyebrow, and then laughed when Cor had looked away with a shrug. That was all. 

“Almost,” Aranea snorted then frowned as Prompto grabbed onto her hand, blue eyes peering up at her intensely. 

“I'm happy you're saying, Nea,” he said, smiling one of those ridiculous smiles of his that made Aranea's skin crawl whenever they were aimed at her. 

“Yeah, well,” she snorted, pulling her hand away to ruffle his hair and then shove him lightly, in Nyx's general direction. “Don't get used to it, Blondie, it's not forever.” 

Cor hummed in the back of his throat, but said nothing. 

Forever was relative, after all. 

* * *


	7. year v [nyx]

* * *

_year v [nyx]_

* * *

Nyx liked to think of himself as a reasonable, patient kind of guy. 

One kind of had to be, to raise a kid like Prompto, who was cute, knew he was cute and also knew people felt bad about scolding him when he was being cute. Or to live with Cor, who was like Prompto, only worse, and deadpan, and Nyx would strangle him, really, if the deadpan didn't make him cackle until he wheezed every single time. 

Nyx was patient. 

Nyx was reasonable. 

Nyx got told he was going to go to the Rock of Ravatogh and escort the Oracle on a fancy, secret, Oracle mission, and he said sure and cracked a joke about being on his best behavior. 

Nyx got told the Empire was doing shitty things and the Oracle needed to stop them, and he saluted her rather than bow, and then grinned when it made her laugh. 

Nyx got told they had to run, now, because that sure as hell was the Glacian in all her enraged, awakened fury, he hadn't stopped to ask when or why or how, he'd grabbed the Oracle and hauled ass, trying his best to make sure all his men got out there in one piece. 

Nyx got home to find Cor had all but officially adopted his new mercenary prodigy, and he'd laughed and pointed out they were going to need a bigger place, if Cor was going to go around taking in every angry, violent teenager they met. 

Nyx was patient. 

Nyx was reasonable. 

But Nyx had fucking limits, too. He'd been running on full-blown panic-fueled auto-pilot for months now, and he was only starting to crawl out of that headspace. Cor had sent Aranea along with Prompto, to visit Lady Amicitia, and it was proof enough of how tense and strung up Nyx really was, that he hadn't protested what an obvious disaster that was going to be. They were alone, now, and Nyx felt safe enough to fall to pieces in all the ways he needed to. 

And then Cor's goddamn phone began to ring on the nightstand. 

“If you answer that,” he growled, “Six help me, Cor, I will murder you.” 

Cor's hand hovered over the rattling phone for a moment, hesitating. 

“It's Regis,” he said, voice thick. 

Nyx ground his teeth and nodded, once. 

“Are you dying?” Cor asked in lieu of a greeting, as he put the phone on speaker, mostly because his hands were shaking too much to hold it steady. 

“What?” Regis' voice echoed, confused. “No. Not literally. Perhaps a tad, metaphorically.” There was a small pause. “Cid called.” 

“Call me back in an hour, then,” Cor snorted, breath hitching just the smallest bit, as Nyx dug his nails into his thigh and dragged them up all the way to his knee. “Or two.” 

“Oh,” Regis said, “is this a bad time?” Nyx ground his hips impatiently and Cor's breathing hitched again, more noticeably this time. “Cor?” 

“He's perfectly fine, your Majesty,” Nyx snorted, amused at the way Cor's eyes widened and then narrowed as he did his best to swallow back a groan when Nyx rolled his hips sharply. “We're _all_ fine.” 

There was a very long, very terse pause, and only their breathing echoed. 

“Good _day_ , gentlemen,” Regis said, in his best kingly voice, and then the line went dead. 

Cor threw an arm over his face and laughed helplessly into it. Nyx slumped down on him, laughing as well. 

“Shit,” Cor snorted. 

“I'm going to regret that, aren't I,” Nyx mouthed the words into Cor's neck. 

“Absolutely,” Cor replied, tilting his head up to give him a better angle. “But he'll probably give us the two hours. Maybe even three.” 

Nyx grinned. 

“Well,” he said, shifting until he found his place again, and Cor moaned in appreciation, “let's not waste the King's mercy, then.” 

* * *

They didn't actually spend three hours fucking. Not that they didn't make a very determined effort, but eventually they shuffled into the shower and then spilled into the couch, because changing the bedsheets was just too much hassle. Nyx laid on Cor, boneless like a well-fed cat, and very nearly purred at the fingers slowly combing through his hair. 

“You're going to tell me about it?” Cor asked, “or would you rather hear about all the stupid shit I did, while you were gone?” 

Nyx licked his lips. 

“Well, the apartment's not on fire,” he joked, though it fell a little flat, since his voice wasn't right for it just yet, “and Prompto's still got all limbs attached, so it couldn't have been that bad.” He paused and sighed. “We should probably talk about Aranea. And... well, everything about that. But, later.” He let out a shuddering breath, as reality finally began to slide into place. “Later.” 

He had a routine, post-deployment. Well, they both did; they just dealt with it differently. Cor slept for days and then got quiet and prickly, after he woke up, decompressing by stages as he let out all the annoyance he'd swallowed back, while out in the field. Nyx got clingy. First on Prompto, who never seemed to mind, considering how hard he took it whenever he was gone more than a few days, and then on Cor. It worked out well for Cor, to be second in the list of priorities, because it usually let him arrange things and take the day off when the worst of it hit Nyx and he needed to hold onto him until he was all but crawling into his bones. They'd have sex and chat about nothing, and bit by bit it would dawn on Nyx that he was still alive and life was still very much worth living, and by the time he had to go and pick up Prompto from daycare, he could laugh again and mean it. 

Cor kept fingering his hair, not really saying anything. It occurred to Nyx that he loved him. It wasn't a terribly earthshattering realization, all things considered. They'd been living together for years now. They were raising a kid together. It seemed like an obvious thing, but he hadn't stumbled upon it quite clearly, until then. 

“I think,” Nyx began, looking up at Cor with a frown. “I think the war is over?” Cor's fingers stilled in his hair, but he said nothing. Nyx swallowed hard. “For a while, at least. I mean, if not for good.” He licked his lips. “I'm not making a lot of sense, am I?” 

“Take your time,” Cor said quietly, and Nyx chuckled, snuggling shamelessly into him. 

“The Nilfs were doing... _something_ , in Ravatogh. Something that put Sylva in a panic,” Nyx explained, and ignored the fact Cor arched an eyebrow at him, over the familiar tone he took when talking about the Oracle. Nyx felt entitled, though. He'd nearly died for her sake more times than he could count, and she did pick up a habit to stare him down when he fumbled with formalities. “She had us following them, nearly all the way to Gralea.” He paused, frowning. “And then... then the Glacian woke up.” Cor stiffened beneath him, and not in the usual fun way. Nyx laughed, remnants of panic curdling in the sound. “Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “I know.” 

They laid there for a long while, Cor's arms wrapped loosely around Nyx's back, and Nyx's entire body melting into him. 

“So, yeah,” Nyx snorted eventually, shifting so he could rest his cheek on Cor's shoulder. “I watched the war end, possibly, and you got us a daughter.” He chuckled. “We don't... really do things by halves, do we?” 

“On the upside,” Cor murmured against his forehead, “things can only improve from here.” 

Nyx hummed in the back of his throat, and dearly hoped it was true. 

* * *

“I would be so, so angry at you,” Nyx told Cor as they walked out the registry, “because of how easy that was, but then I remember you didn't let them kill me off this time around, and I feel bad about it.” 

It had taken Cor exactly a week to finish filing all the paperwork required to legally claim guardianship of Aranea. There had been no nitpicky interviews, no backhanded threats, no intrusive questions. He'd just signed an offensively tall stack of papers, delivered them to the person in charge, and gotten a neat little file in return. 

Nyx wasn't bitter. 

Much. 

“I might sneak it into the next batch of edicts that Regis has to sign,” Cor deadpanned at him, “none shall declare Nyx Ulric dead, lest there's a body to confirm it.” 

“That's... almost sweet of you,” Nyx snorted, “in, like, the most morbid way possible.” He paused. “You asshole.” 

“My heart,” Cor said tonelessly, staring straight ahead, “it breaks.” 

“Yeah, well, put it back together,” Nyx retorted, “we still have three more houses to look at today.” 

Cor sighed dramatically. 

“Joy.” 

* * *

“ _Fuck_ , no.” 

Nyx felt himself flush in mortification as he realized what he'd just said, and then flinched as Lady Sylvia Stella Aurum, first cousin of the King and head of staff of the royal household, arched an eyebrow at him. 

“I mean...” he began, raising his hands in surrender, “while we'd be... flattered to attend, I don't really think it would be a good idea.” Nyx tried to imagine Prompto stuffed in a suit for an entire evening and could not come up with a single scenario that did not end up in disaster somehow. Then he tried to think about Aranea and formal dress in the same sentence, and shuddered violently. “My kids are not... exactly paragons of courtly behavior, ma'am.” He licked his lips, laughing nervously. “Neither am I, for that matter.” 

Sylvia stared him down some more, and Nyx squirmed in place, pretty sure she was doing it on purpose and not quite sure he knew how to stop. 

“I'm well aware of the shortcomings in their education,” she said eventually, expression unamused. “And I'm also perfectly conscious of your lack of proper breeding, Commander.” She sniffed disdainfully. “Nonetheless, the Oracle herself extended the invitation, to you and your family, and you _will_ attend. This is not up for discussion,” she added sharply, eyes flashing at him in irritation. “The announcement of the engagement will do great good for the people's morale, in light of the ceasefire with the Empire.” 

“But-” 

“You are Commander of the Kingsglaive,” Sylvia snarled _daintily_ at him; it was quite possibly the most terrifying thing Nyx had ever seen, and he'd witnessed a bona fide Astral in the middle of a murderous rage that not even the Oracle could calm down. “You are not some brown-nosed soldier sent off to die, without care or consequence. Where you go, the King's will follows.” She tilted her chin up defiantly. “The war is over, Commander. So unless you plan on retiring and sinking into obscurity, I recommend you put away your blades and learn to dance the politics that come with your rank. You've ignored it for far too long, and now you cannot afford to, anymore.” 

Like picking a fight with the ocean, Cor had told him once. Nyx was starting to see it. 

“I hate politics,” he said, shoulders slumping slightly. 

Sylvia snorted. 

“So does Cor,” she pointed out, one eyebrow arched, “but he knows what needs doing, and does it anyway. I will expect no less from you, either.” 

“Yes, ma'am.” 

“As for your children,” she added, and Nyx swore she was laughing at him, enjoying his suffering. “Remedial courtesy lessons might salvage the boy yet. Ignis has been restless as of late, he'll enjoy the challenge, if nothing else.” Nyx had no idea who Ignis was, but he had a slight sinking feeling as Sylvia smiled. It was a _nice_ smile. It made every hair on Nyx's body stand on end. “The girl, though... I believe I will see to her myself. We only have two months, after all.” 

Nyx didn't whimper, but it was a very near thing. 

* * *

Ignis Scientia was six years old and better versed in court etiquette than the King himself. 

Prompto adored him, but then, Nyx was kind of resigned to the fact Prompto adored everyone he met and was in turn adored by them. 

Aranea kicked his ankle after her first session with Sylvia, then punched him in the shoulder when he'd shrugged sympathetically. 

“...not to your liking, I take it?” He asked, and then dodged when she aimed to punch him again. 

“You know how I said I'd rather stab myself in the eye with a fork rather than listen to Pelna drone on for hours about proper comm maintenance?” She asked, one eyebrow arched as she let herself flop into the couch next to him. “I take it back,” she deadpanned, “comm maintenance is _fascinating_.” 

Nyx snorted. 

“Pelna will be _delighted_ to hear it.” 

“Why is there even a party anyway?” Aranea asked snidely, “the Prince is five years old. It's gonna be another twenty years before they actually get married.” 

“Ignis said Noct is a bacon of hope!” Prompto interjected from the floor, looking proud of himself. 

“Beacon,” Nyx and Aranea corrected in unison. 

“Yes, that.” Prompto nodded sagely. 

“Anyway, Prompto's right,” Nyx nodded at Prompto, who beamed at the compliment and went back to his drawing. “Mostly, I think these people actually like that kind of party?” 

Aranea snorted, wrinkling her nose in disgust. 

“Lucians are _weird_.” 

“Yeah, I'm not gonna argue that one,” Nyx laughed, shaking his head. “How are the exams going, by the way? You're still sure you don't want to enroll into regular classes instead? Next term starts soon, we could still squeeze you in, I reckon.” 

Aranea rolled her eyes. 

“We're back to Pelna, comm maintenance, me and my eyes getting stabbed by forks,” she said dryly. She sighed in defeat, when he continued staring, clearly expecting her to elaborate. “Math and geography were fine. Biology is getting weird. History can go fuck itself, though.” She rolled her eyes. “They've got a hundred and thirteen Kings, and they expect me to learn and memorize the name and life of all of them? The hell is that useful?” 

“I don't know,” Nyx chuckled, “patriotism?” 

“Suck a dick,” Aranea retorted, rolling her eyes. Then made a face as Nyx grinned slyly. “Ew. Ew. _Ew._ Fuck you for making me think about it!” She tried to smother him with a cushion. “You're old! You're not supposed to do that anymore!” 

“Excuse you, I'm twenty-five,” Nyx snorted, as he avoided death by strangulation as best he could. “I've got lots to live for. And enjoy.” 

“ _Ew!_ ” 

“Dad?” Prompto asked, looking up from his coloring book with a solemn look on his face. “Is sucking dicks fun?” 

Aranea fell off the couch, cackling, as Nyx's ears burned. 

* * *

Years of living in shitty, awkward apartments had taught Nyx a great deal, about shopping for a decent place to live and all the wondrous things that could go wrong with one. Cor had called him a veritable terror when he made the realtor cry on the fourth tour of what she'd called a once in a lifetime opportunity, and he'd sounded almost dreamy about it when he'd said it. Still, moving as a priority that couldn't be ignored, considering the apartment had exactly one bathroom and Aranea had a tendency to make the place feel claustrophobic just by entering a room, sometimes. They needed space, and they needed it _yesterday_. 

It would have been alright, really, if Sylvia hadn't gotten involved, halfway through, and demanded the right to vote on the decision. 

“It's not like _he_ knows what he's doing,” she'd said, nodding sharply at Cor, who merely shrugged dispassionately at her. “Did he tell you I was the one who set up the apartment for him, in the first place?” 

Cor pretended really hard he wasn't there, staring at the wall and seemingly willing himself to become invisible by sheer force of will. 

Nyx snorted. 

“No, actually,” he said, amused despite it all, as Cor avoided looking at him in the eye. “I guess he forgot to mention that.” 

“Honestly,” Sylvia snorted, mouth twisted into a disapproving line. “Highest ranking general in the entire country, and he was still living in the barracks.” 

“There's nothing wrong with the barracks,” Nyx said, offering token resistance, and wincing at the glare immediately transfered to him. 

“Barracks?” She demanded, eyes bright and fierce. “For a close friend and confidante of the King? One of the most loyal men in his service, to whom he entrusts only the most important tasks? Living in the _barracks_ ?” 

“The mess hall food was decent,” Cor pointed out, if only to be contrary. 

Sylvia rolled her eyes mightily. 

“You have standards to maintain,” she snapped darkly, “you do not want me to enforce them.” 

Nyx winced. 

“Of course not, Lady Aurum.” 

She scoffed. 

“Well, then, show me what you have so far.” 

As tentatively as one would approach a feral Garulessa, Nyx showed her what the options they'd narrowed down to, up to then. Somehow, a week later, they were signing the contract. Nyx allowed himself five minutes every morning to panic gloriously about this new facet of his life, before he settled in to deal with the rest of it as usual. 

* * *

“Huh,” Cor said, staring at the wakizashi with a puzzled frown. “I was wondering where this was.” 

Nyx snorted. 

“Do I even want to know why you had a sword in your closet?” He asked, taping the last of the bathroom boxes shut. 

“Probably not,” Cor replied, as he pulled it out of the scabbard to study the blade. 

“It's a bit... short, isn't it?” Nyx teased, piling the box with the rest and walking over to needle him back into work. 

Cor snorted dryly. 

“It's meant to be,” he said, frowning, as he ignored the obvious joke, “it's half of a daisho.” When Nyx merely stared at him, Cor sighed. “There's a particular style of swordsmanship, long forgotten, that uses two swords of varying lengths. This sword was part of one such set.” 

“And the other one?” Nyx tilted his head to the side, watching curiously as Cor's face became almost melancholic. 

“It was lost,” he said quietly, “a very long time ago.” 

Nyx hummed thoughtfully, and went to drape himself on Cor's back, chin hooked on his shoulder. 

“Is that why you don't use two swords now?” 

Cor shook his head. 

“I learned a better style,” he said, lips twitching. “And a few other things, too.” He slid the sword back into it's sheath. “Maybe I'll hang it in my office. Terrify the new recruits with it.” 

Nyx snorted and leaned in to press a kiss to the corner of his jaw. 

“You're such an asshole,” he sighed fondly, as Cor smirked wryly. 

Aranea kicked the door open and glared at them. 

“Can you two stop being gross for five minutes?” She demanded, hands on her hips, “the kitchen's packed and I'm starving.” 

“Oh no,” Cor deadpanned at her, “I guess we'll die then.” 

“Ugh,” Aranea replied, rolling her eyes pointedly. “I'm ordering pizza and you're paying for it.” 

“Paws off my beer,” Nyx told her, giving her a pointed look. “I counted them.” 

“Greedy bastard,” she muttered, scowling, and then stomped out of the room in a huff. 

Nyx smiled on reflex as she stormed away, though the expression fell by degrees, until he was frowning. He didn't quite notice, either, until Cor wound a hand into his hair and tugged gently on it. 

“You alright there?” He asked teasingly, lips twitching. 

Nyx blinked. 

“I...” he began, and then paused, the flippant shrug-off dying on his lips as he contemplated the actual answer to that question in what seemed like the first time in forever. “I think so,” he said, “it's just... you know, dawning on me, I guess.” 

“Mm?” Cor placed the wakizashi on the dresser without much ceremony and went over to sit at the edge of the bed. 

Nyx followed and sat next to him without having to think too much about it, realizing it, and then thinking too much about it, at once. 

“The war's over,” he said, well aware he should sound pleased or happy about that, but instead coming across as panicked still. “And... we survived that, somehow. You're still into me, despite the fact you objectively, probably shouldn't. We've got kids, plural now. We just bought a house together, like jointly. Somehow we haven't killed each other or ourselves in the process and I'm just...” He waved his hands a little helplessly. “You know.” 

Cor snorted. 

“Ah,” he said, and then pulled Nyx into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, and Nyx would protest it, really, if not for the bit where Cor wrapped his arms around him and it felt like exactly what he needed. “Never had a proper _holy shit, I'm alive_ realization before, have you?” 

“...you just described my entire military career,” Nyx laughed, a bit off kilter. 

“Yeah,” Cor muttered, tilting his head so he could hook his chin on Nyx's shoulder, “but that was other people realizing it. It's different when it's you, isn't it.” 

It was. 

Nyx wasn't entirely sure he liked it, but the hug was nice, if nothing else. He closed his eyes and tried to relax, but it was harder than he expected. They stayed there for a while, just... holding each other. And it was nice. And Nyx realized that, yeah, shit, he was alive, which he'd never really believed was going to happen, by the time it was all over, because he'd always focused on survival one day at the time, and now he... had time. All the time in the world, apparently. 

There was a loud crash coming from the living room. 

Nyx licked his lips and snickered helplessly. 

“She's drinking my beer, isn't she,” he said, not a question, but also not entirely a statement of fact. 

“Probably,” Cor replied, not particularly upset about the prospect. 

“We have a daughter,” Nyx muttered with the beginnings of a hysterical giggle, “and she's a budding alcoholic.” 

Cor snorted. 

“Seems to be the case, yes.” 

Nyx pulled back enough to kiss him, languid and slow. Cor hummed in the back of his throat, not particularly upset about it. 

“I'm going to kill her,” Nyx declared quietly, sliding off his lap and stretching as he stood up. 

Cor politely allowed him his delusion and followed after him as he went off to face disaster in the living room. 

It was, despite it all, going to be alright. 

* * *

Regardless of his misgivings about the idea, and Cor's perpetual amusement about it, they attended the official ball to celebrate the engagement between Noctis Lucis Caelum and Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, future King and Oracle respectively, as well as the formal declaration of ceasefire with the Empire. With their kids. Who were really taking it a lot better than Nyx had honestly expected them to. Prompto spent most of the night hiding behind Gladio and trailing after Ignis, looking vaguely awed by the proceedings. 

Aranea, in formal Kingsglaive uniform like Nyx, due to a loophole she'd fought teeth and nail for with Sylvia, parked herself next to Cor and the punch bowl and remained there for the entire night. Nyx kept trying to join them, but the Oracle had mentioned him by name during her speech about the ceasefire and every third step he got ambushed by extremely polite important people who really just wanted to gossip and stare at his braids from up close. 

Cor kept giving him amused looks over the rim of his glass, from all the way across the room, the bastard. 

Lady Amicitia saved him eventually, as she ambled over slowly, supported by her husband. She was quite, quite obviously pregnant and her gown for the night, a shimery black dress decorated with tiny, shiny stones that Nyx was almost entirely sure were actual diamonds, made no effort to hide it. 

“Enjoying yourself, Commander?” Clarus asked him, smiling teasingly, and Nyx realized that, yeah, Cor was right actually, Clarus _was_ an asshole. 

“Oh, don't pick on the boy,” Lady Amicitia scolded him, reaching a hand to poke at the center of his chest. “He's doing perfectly fine for his first introduction to court, proper.” Her eyes glinted in amusement. “He's not drunk, for starters, unlike someone else I could name.” 

Nyx marveled at the flush that spread over Clarus' face at the comment. 

“Thank you, ma'am,” he replied, a tad less anxious. 

“Anemone, Nyx,” she chided him gently, “we've known each other for how long now? Use my name, or I shan't defend your honor any long-” She trailed off, frowning. “Ah,” she sighed after a moment, “shit.” 

Nyx choked on his tongue, as Clarus stared down at his wife and her vaguely irritated expression, confused. Anemone reached a hand and lightly patted his cheek. 

“It's quite alright, love,” she said gently, “my water just broke.” 

The party got a lot more interesting, after that. 

* * *


	8. year v [prompto]

* * *

_year v [prompto]_

* * *

“Wanna see?” Gladio asked Prompto, just as he'd asked every person in the room, holding onto the bundle of blankets where his little sister slept. “She's so cute!” 

Prompto blinked, but nodded, unable to resist the gentle pride in Gladio's voice, and leaned in to catch a glimpse of her face. She looked a bit like a squashed potato, in Prompto's humble opinion, but then Iris yawned, and opened her eyes. She giggled when she saw him, reaching a hand out to grab his hair. And _tugged_. 

“Ow!” Prompto winced, nearly losing his balance. 

Gladio made a soft noise, gently rocking Iris until she let go. 

“Like father, like son,” Cor deadpanned, leaning on the wall by the door, causing Nyx to laugh sheepishly, covering his face with one hand. 

Lying on the bed, looking less tired and more restless than anything else, Lady Amicitia allowed herself a very pointed snicker. 

“There's a story there,” Anemone mused wryly, smiling gently as Cor smirked and Nyx looked away, embarrassed. “You'll have to share it some other time.” 

“Sure,” Nyx agreed, “some other time,” he added, in the tones of one hoping that time never came. 

Cor snorted unhelpfully and got a sharp poke at the ribs for his trouble. Anemone laughed, and Nyx flushed. Cor stared dutifully at the wall. They were quiet for a while, as they watched Prompto make cooing noises – from a prudent distance – and pull faces at Iris, to make her laugh. Gladio was glowing with as much pride and adoration a seven year old boy could. 

“You have a girl of your own now, though, don't you?” Anemone asked, arching an eyebrow as a faint sheen of red parked itself across the bridge of Cor's nose, just as Nyx chuckled wryly. 

“Yeah,” he said, licking his lips before he smiled, “ours is a little bit more...” 

“Prickly,” Cor muttered, still not meeting Anemone's delighted stare. 

“...I was going to say energetic,” Nyx snorted, shaking his head, “but... yeah. Prickly's the right word.” 

“I found her rather endearing, to be honest,” Anemone mused with a small smile. “Reminded me of a certain someone I once knew.” 

Cor cleared his throat and carefully ignored the way Nyx's grin sharpened. 

“Dad?” Prompto asked, bored by then of watching Gladio coo at Iris and leaving him sitting on the armchair, wiggling his fingers over her face. He trotted over to stand between Nyx and Cor, looking up with the glint in his eyes that meant he wanted something. “Can I get a sister?” 

Cor snorted quietly as Nyx stared blankly down at his son. 

Prompto wrinkled his nose. 

“I mean a cute one,” he clarified helpfully, “not like Nea.” He grinned. “Nea's cool, but she's not squished potato cute.” 

Nyx stared down at Prompto, trying to figure out how to reply to that, while Anemone laughed heartily about it. 

“Request duly noted,” Cor said, one eyebrow arched. 

Prompto beamed up at him, sated. 

“In the meantime,” Anemone said, taking pity of Nyx and his poor attempts to hold back his spluttering, “you're welcome to play with Iris and Gladio whenever you want, Prompto.” 

“I will!” He promised, and then paused, catching Nyx's eye before he added: “Thank you, ma'am.” 

Because honestly, what was the point of manners if no one saw you use them? Prompto basked in the attention, like a cat in the sun, and all was well in the world. 

* * *

Prompto liked the new house. 

He had his own room in it, and it was special because he had never shared it with anyone before. He had liked his old one, back in the apartment, since he still remembered sharing a bed with his dad and feeling warm and safe, but there was a giddy sort of feeling that came with knowing this was _his_. Just his. He'd been allowed to choose the covers for the bed – his favorite one had a checkered pattern that had all the shades of green in the world in it, all seven of them – and the color of the walls. He'd also convinced his dad to buy him a bunch of glow-in-the-dark star stickers to paste on the ceiling, though Nyx had then fumbled with them so badly, Cor had ended up putting them up himself. He still had his cactuar night light, too, so he knew for sure there were no monsters hiding anywhere, even when it was dark. 

He liked the garden, too. It was very small, just a strip of grass along the back of the house, with an old, knotted tree in a corner that looked more dead than alive. You couldn't really play in it, like in the park, but Cor liked to sit on the steps early in the morning – so, so early, it was almost always still dark outside – bare feet on the grass as he drank his coffee, and he always let Prompto go sit with him, if he happened to be up by then. Even if he almost always ended up falling asleep again, anyway. 

There were things he didn't like about the new house, though. Like the fact there were now places he wasn't supposed to go – Nea's room was strictly off limits on the threat of endless tickling and the occasional pinching, and so was Cor's study in the basement, under the pain of Cor's worst disappointed face. But most of it was good, so he rarely had much time to think about that. 

“What are you looking for?” Prompto asked, peering at the dinner table and the ocean of jigsaw puzzle pieces blanketing it. 

They had never actually eaten in the dinner table anyway, not even dinner, so Prompto was still somewhat unsure about the naming. But Nyx had emptied a box that proudly announced 5000 pieces onto it the week after they moved, and now he spent at least an hour every night, staring at them and slowly putting them in place. The box also promised they would form a stormy landscape, with a large, white creature standing proudly at the foot of a cliff – a Galahdian coeurl, Nyx had explained, when Prompto asked – once it was completed. Prompto had his doubts the whole thing _could_ be completed: the pieces were small and there were so many of them, he wasn't sure it was really possible to count them. 

“Blueish white, with a thin, black stripe,” Nyx replied, patiently trying out the piece in his hand onto several others, before sighing and dropping it into the pile with the rest of the rejects. 

Prompto liked to watch him, more than help. Nyx had put together the frame so quickly that Prompto had expected him to complete the impossible task in under a weekend; he'd gone to bed and left the table an ocean of pieces, and he'd woken up to find them all neatly piled up by color and the frame proudly stretching almost to the edges of the table. But then he'd slowed down considerably, putting together tiny clusters of the image. Nea put one or two pieces every week and acted smug and superior about it, every time. Sometimes Cor would lean on the back of Nyx's chair and point to a piece or another, and Nea would call them names and make a fuss until Nyx tugged Cor down for a kiss just to shut her up. Prompto didn't really understand what was so weird about it, really. 

Prompto ran his hands through the pile, ostensibly looking for the right piece, but more for the sake of feeling the small, pointed edges slide between his fingers. 

“Mmm, this one?” He asked, offering a piece at random. Nyx took it anyway, and went through the slow process of trying to fit in place. “Why do you like jigsaws so much?” 

Prompto remembered, vaguely, getting a few – pieces much larger and lesser in number, and pictures far less, less complicated – when he was younger. He remembered chewing on the pieces and building little houses with them, and only agreeing to solving the puzzle with direct encouragement. Eventually, he'd stopped getting them, which was fine, honest, he'd never really liked them. 

Nyx was quiet for a moment, before he sighed. 

“Your grandmother used to like them,” he said, watching him carefully. “They remind me of her.” 

Prompto stared at him, eyes wide. 

“My grandmother?” He wondered, as if the concept that he'd have one had just occurred to him. 

Nyx chuckled. 

“Yeah, my mum,” he explained, expression soft. “When I was your age, and it was raining so hard outside that we couldn't go out to play, she'd go to her closet and pull a jigsaw out for us to play with.” He laughed fondly. “She had tons of them. I don't think we ever actually solved the same one twice.” 

Prompto watched the smile fade slowly, and frowned. He didn't like it when his dad looked sad. He didn't like it when people were sad, in general, but his dad was specially forbidden from ever being sad. He walked around the table and went to sit on his lap, crawling up into his arms so he could hug him. Hugs always worked. 

Nyx laughed at the sudden cuddle, but dutifully wrapped his arms around Prompto and helped him settle in more comfortably, sitting on one of his thighs. 

“Can we ask her to come and help?” Prompto asked, leaning into Nyx's hand as his fingers lightly scratched the hair behind his left ear. “She can stay in my room!” 

Nyx laughed again, but it was wry and low, and it made Prompto pout. 

“You're a good kid, Prom,” he said, dropping a kiss to the crown of his head, “but she's not around anymore.” Prompto made a confused sound in the back of his throat. “Remember a couple years ago, when Livia's dad... went away?” 

Prompto did remember. It had been the first time he'd learned that dads were not forever, as he'd thought. His dad might not be forever, either. It hadn't dawn on him properly, until much later, that once a dad left like that, they didn't come back. 

“Oh,” Prompto said, quiet, feeling like a cold space opened up inside his chest. “She's dead?” 

He wasn't a little baby, after all. He understood that... that things and people and animals died, sometimes. No one had been able to successfully explain why, to him – he'd asked Cor, once, but all Cor had said was _because, because is why_ , and shrugged – but he understood enough to know you couldn't take it back. You had to be careful so it didn't happen, and that was why Prompto liked folding little paper stars, whenever his dad or Cor left for a while. He'd heard someone say they were good for luck and protection. So far, they always came back, so Prompto knew the stars worked, even if his dad and Cor sometimes took a little too long to come back. All he cared about was that they did. 

“Yeah,” Nyx sighed, resting his chin on Prompto's head. “She's been dead for a while now.” 

Prompto hummed, thoughtful. He reached a hand and picked up a piece from the table, bright red like the field of flowers in the picture, and then reached to try and put it in place. He found the spot on the second try, grinning to himself. 

“What was she like?” 

Nyx kissed his head again, and told him. 

* * *

Prompto didn't like it when his dad brought him back to the Citadel with him, after picking him up from school. It usually meant he still had work to do, and his office was boring. The brightside was they usually ate dinner on the way home, and if he was particularly good, he got to choose where they'd eat. 

“Ugh, seriously?” Nyx groused irritably, staring at his phone like it has personally offended him. 

“What?” Prompto asked, looking away from the wall-sized map his dad kept in his office. 

“Cor's not answering his phone,” Nyx explained with a sigh. “He's probably reading reports again and being dumb. I wanna leave, dammit. It's late.” 

Prompto giggled. His parents had a tendency to say lots and lots and _lots_ of bad words, almost always at each other. But they always sounded nice and warm, so he knew they weren't _really_ bad. He didn't know how to say them like that, so he didn't, but he understood there were bad words that weren't really bad, if you knew how to use them. Nea's bad words were like that, too, bad at almost everyone, but not really bad, when she threw them at him, or Nyx, or Cor. It was weird, but the good, special kind of weird that tasted like a secret, and Prompto hoarded this knowledge and kept it to himself. 

“I can go find him,” Prompto offered, perking up. 

Cor's office was fourteen floors above Nyx's, but Prompto knew the way. You just had to use the lift and then ask the nice lady sitting in the big desk to let him through the big double doors. Then you had to go two corridors left and six doors right. Nyx considered it for a moment, before he nodded. 

“Alright,” he said, and grinned. “Tell the big git he's paying for dinner, too.” 

Prompto giggled and ran out of the room before his dad could change his mind. He ran into Libertus in the lift. 

“Hey, little man,” he said, grinning down at him and ruffling his hair. “What're you doing out here?” 

Prompto basked in the attention and beamed at him, proud. 

“Gonna find Cor,” he said, and then added, in a lower tone, as if sharing a secret: “Dad called him a git.” 

Libertus snorted. 

“He would,” he mused, “wouldn't he? Want me to go with you?” 

“Pft, no,” Prompto laughed, “I know the way! I'm not a baby, Lib.” 

When he'd been little, he'd had a lot of trouble with Libertus name. He could say it now, all million syllables in it, but it always made him smile when he shortened it, so he didn't. Libertus ruffled his hair again. 

“Alright, alright,” he chuckled, grinning. “Soldier on a mission, aren't you? That's good.” Prompto nodded solemnly. “Here's another one for you,” he said, as Prompto perked up. “Tell your dad we still need to have that grill party, to celebrate his new place.” 

“Will do!” Prompto promised. 

“Carry on then,” Libertus said magnanimously, gently shoving him in the direction of the open doors. 

Prompto waved at him, until they closed, and then he turned to the big panel and stood on his tip toes to press the right button. Temptation to press more was strong, but there were people watching. Prompto did his best to stand still as he waited. 

“Excuse me,” he muttered, head bowed, as the doors opened, and then scurried out without looking back. 

“Prompto,” the lady at the desk said, smiling as she saw him. “Looking for the Marshal?” 

Prompto felt bad, because he didn't remember her name. She'd told him, a long time ago, but he'd forgotten and he was too embarrassed to ask again. He smiled at her. 

“Dad sent me,” he explained, nodding. 

“Off you go then,” she said kindly, pressing a button under the desk, as the wide doors clicked open. 

They weren't as heavy as they looked. Prompto waved at her with a bright _thanks!_ and pushed them open. He scurried down the corridors, because deep down he didn't really like them – they all looked the same, narrow and full of black, blank doors that lead to places he wasn't allowed into – and hurried to Cor's familiar office. 

“Dad says you're a git,” Prompto announced brightly, as he entered the office. “And you're buying dinner.” 

Cor looked up from his desk and stared at him with a frown. Then he snorted. 

“...I suppose I am,” he muttered, putting down his pen. 

Prompto grinned. 

The corridors were a lot less scary, when Cor was walking with him. Prompto held his hand and didn't really mind the fact they were stopped every three steps, when someone came out to say goodbye. Cor didn't care, so he didn't either. That was usually the best way to do things. When they reached the lifts, Cor used a shiny black card to unlock the one on the far left. Prompto liked coming up to his office just for that; the lift was almost always empty, though once they'd ran into King. He could ask Cor all sorts of things, riding that lift, and he'd always answer. Prompto stood there in silence, watching the numbers slowly tick down back to the right floor. 

“Cor?” He asked, looking up. 

“Mm?” Cor looked at him, one eyebrow arched. 

“Do _you_ have a mom?” 

Cor blinked, then shrugged. 

“Yes,” he said, frowning slightly. “Though she's dead now,” he added, and gave Prompto a curious look. “Why?” 

Prompto shrugged back. 

“Just 'cause.” 

Cor hummed in the back of his throat, but before he could ask anything, the door opened. He sighed. 

“Let's find your dad,” he said, and let go of Prompto's hand so he could run ahead and report his success. 

He'd been very good, after all, and he wanted his dad to know it, before he asked them to have skewers for dinner. 

* * *

Prompto tried to ask Nea about her mom. 

Once. 

The less that was said about the attempt, the better. 

* * *

It was another month and a half, before he was ready to ask. It was late, and his dad was watching the news, sitting on the couch with Cor's head resting on his thigh as he laid as long as he was on the couch, reading a book. Prompto watched them from the stairs, considering. 

“You're terrible at lurking,” Cor said, deadpan, without looking up from his book. 

Prompto giggled, ducking his head in embarrassment, and then gathered up his courage again, and walked up to them. 

“Dad?” He asked, licking his lips. “Do I have a mom?” 

They didn't answer immediately. Instead, they shared a look, one of those long, meaningful ones that were like an entire language no one else spoke. His dad sighed as Cor shrugged and sat up. Prompto watched him go with a frown. He didn't look angry, at least. 

“C'mere, Prom,” Nyx said, patting the space Cor had vacated, invitingly. 

Prompto crawled into his lap instead. 

“You do,” he said, arms wrapped around him. “It's complicated.” 

Prompto didn't like it, when his dad called things complicated. It usually meant he wasn't going to really understand what he was talking about. Complicated was weird and a little scary. Like the marks on his wrists or the reason why he had to keep them covered, always. He scratched at them, as if they itched just by thinking about them. 

“When you were little,” Nyx explained, “something bad happened. We don't know what,” he added, before Prompto could ask. “But it was bad.” 

“Was it my fault?” Prompto asked, lip caught between his teeth. 

Nyx shook his head. 

“No, Prom, it wasn't your fault,” he said so firmly, certain of it, and Prompto swallowed hard, nodding. “There was a woman, very brave, who saved you from the bad thing. She saved me too, when I was little. And she... told me to look after you, when she couldn't anymore.” 

“She told him to get you away from the bad thing,” Cor corrected, as he returned with a large, yellow envelope that had the big Crownsguard emblem printed on it. He sat next to Nyx, giving Prompto a knowing look. “He decided to take care of you, all on his own.” 

Nyx chuckled, burying his face into Prompto's hair. It was nice. 

“I've always thought of her as your mom,” Nyx said, as Cor opened the envelope and pulled out a handful of pictures. “She named you, after all. And she saved you.” 

Prompto took the pictures only after a moment of hesitation, curiosity burning into desperate yearning the moment he touched them. They showed a tall, thin woman with pale skin. She wore round, black glasses, over her nose, which was just the slightest bit crooked. Her eyes were green, a little too big, and her mouth was wide and thin. Her hair was black, long and pulled into a braid that looped around her neck. Her smile was teasing, softening her features, and it made her look pretty. 

Prompto clutched the photos tightly, and didn't realize he was crying until his tears fell on them. 

“Her name was Lyra,” Nyx said gently, rubbing small circles on his back. “Lyra Argentum. She was the bravest person I've ever met.” 

Prompto swallowed hard. 

“Can... can you tell me about her?” 

They did. Prompto fell asleep lulled by the sound of Cor's voice, low and steady, and Nyx's softer, kinder tones. They kept talking, even after he couldn't hear them anymore, but the sound was comforting and reached into his dreams, softening them and making them gentle, instead of sad. 

In the morning, Nyx took him out to buy picture frames, and Prompto placed them solemnly on the desk in his room. He'd bought one extra, a bit smaller than the ones for his mom. It was about the size of a battered, well-worn photo that Nea refused to share with anyone, not even him. She yelled at him, but he'd known she would. 

After all, everyone needed a mom. 

* * *


	9. year vi

* * *

_year vi_

* * *

Nyx twisted like a cat midair, spine rolling as he flipped, and then sank the sole of his boot straight into Cor's face with enough force to send him skidding back into a rock. He continued the flip until he landed on the floor, hands and feet, and then leaped back just in case Cor recovered faster than expected. In the stands, the Kingsglaive cheered loudly, while the Crownsguard jeered, calling foul. 

Nyx gave a sweeping bow, because this was, after all, an exhibition match and what was the point if they didn't put up a show? 

Cor stood up slowly, wiping the blood off his split lip with his sleeve, and snarled a smile. 

“I felt that one,” he admitted, cracking his neck a little. “For once.” 

“Good,” Nyx snorted, grinning, “gotta leave you with something to remember me by, while I'm gone.” 

“I'm touched,” Cor deadpanned, summoning his sword back into his hand, grip relaxed and all the more dangerous because of it. “Does that mean you want a parting gift?” 

Nyx avoided the opening strike, dodging to the left, and blocked the second swing even though it made the his arms go numb from the strain. 

“I have suggestions, if you're game,” Nyx replied, eyes bright, and then warped across the arena because he knew the third strike was always unavoidable. 

Cor amused himself by keeping to the pattern, if only to give Nyx something to focus on. It wouldn't be a fair match, otherwise. Nyx was a formidable fighter by his own right, but he was a very poor one-on-one match against Cor, considering for all his speed and strength, he wasn't resilient enough to keep up with him on a long, sustained assault. Cor didn't really hold it against him, since he still hadn't met anyone who could. No, in his opinion, Nyx was better suited to take down someone like Clarus, who had strength to rival Cor's, but nowhere near the speed. Nyx was a blitz fighter, quickly in and quickly out, strikes precise and devastating. But most importantly, Nyx was part of a team. He was not used to fighting alone, and it showed. He had tells and openings that he'd left there simply because there was always someone there to cover them for him, and the trust that they would be covered was so ingrained he didn't even realize it. Clarus was smart enough to see those openings, but crucially too slow to take advantage of them. 

Cor didn't have openings like that, because he didn't bring anyone along anymore, to try and cover them for him. 

Still, if Nyx had been impressive, when they had first met – he'd taken down Glauca, and regardless of the circumstances, that was no small feat at all – command and field experience had certainly sharpened his skills. Half the fun of their little exhibition bouts was all they new ways they could surprise each other. It did, however, irritate Cor somewhat, to be the measure against which Nyx was apparently judged. If nothing else because he knew damn well that if Nyx was not Galahdian, his prowess would be recognized with a lot less qualifying buts attached. 

He thought about that, a lot, much like he did with any problem he was presented with that didn't have a straightforward solution. Insmonia was not kind to people born outside it, as if they had all collectively decided that Lucis stretched only as far as the Wall, and saw those who came from outside as little more than vermin, regardless of their origins or intentions. Galahdians were worse, though, from what Cor had seen – and he'd seen a lot, considering keeping tabs on the refugee situation had become a self-imposed duty of his. Galahdians were _proud_. Refugees from Leide, Duscae or Cleinge tried their best to mix in, bowing their heads and adapting as best they could. Even the recent waves from Tenebrae and Jubar were a lot more open to changing their lives around the rituals and rhythms of Insomnia. 

But Galahdians... Galahdians stood out like a sore thumb. They congregated together, building up pockets of identity and preserving their ways as much they could. The fact the Kingsglaive was staffed almost exclusively by them was both a blessing and a curse, in that regard. The Kingsglaive provided resources that kept their community afloat, and Cor had seen it, first hand, the way they stuck together like a well-oiled support structure, closing ranks against the rest of the world. On the other hand, the perceived favoritism was a slight that bit deep, and the prejudice that followed in retaliation was staggering. 

At least, Cor thought somewhat despondently as he avoided Nyx's best attempts to shiv him in the ribs, Clarus was sympathetic to the issue and more than well aware of it. 

That was one seat in the council with not insignificant weight to it, willing to support reforms and try to provide a solution for the problem in a more long-term way. Cor was keenly aware that one seat out of fifteen was not ideal, but dancing politics to get more on his side was a slow, tedious process, and he loathed to think about it. It needed to be done, though, so he'd get it done. Eventually. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Nyx asked him, after the match ended – Cor won, but then that wasn't the point of their spars – and they were making their way to his office for their follow up ritual of lunch and speculation on how the betting pool had ended. 

“About what?” Cor blinked, and then frowned, as he opened the private lift and stepped back to let Nyx in first. 

“Whatever's eating you up,” Nyx snorted, and then reached a hand to pat the cut on Cor's shirt. “I got you good today, that usually doesn't happen unless you're really distracted.” 

Cor stared at Nyx for a moment, considering. Galahd was a sore subject for Nyx, understandably. So was the cruelty his people faced in Insomnia. But beyond pointing it out to Cor, whenever Cor said something thoughtless on the subject, they'd never really talked about it. It felt wrong to. Nyx didn't want pity or help or even a willing ear. He wanted nothing, on this one thing, that Cor could provide. And still, he'd made Cor aware of it, and by his own nature and his own sense of right and wrong, Cor couldn't let it go. 

“Shuffling my schedule around in my head,” Cor told him, which wasn't a lie, but not the actual truth either, and smirked. “Might manage to actually see you off properly, this time around.” 

Then he leaned in to kiss Nyx, for all twenty floors they still had to go, to reach his office. Nyx made a surprised, giddy sound in the back of his throat, and kissed him back with the thrill of doing something they shouldn't. 

They were, after all, in agreement that some things shouldn't be done, in the Citadel. But then, they were also both the kind of person who thought rules were meant to be broken, sometimes. 

* * *

Cor surfaced from his reports with a pulsing headache radiating from behind his left eye. He realized he'd forgotten to plug in his phone to charge, when he'd sat to do prep work for the next day, and thus the alarm never rang. The clock on the wall unhelpfully pointed out it was now two in the morning. He rubbed his eyes with his fingers, groaning, and then made his way out of the study and into the house proper as quietly as he could. 

He found Aranea sprawled on the couch in the living room, a veritable wasteland of notes, books, references and other trinkets expanding like a wave around her, while she laid back with an open book covering her snoring face. Cor resisted the urge to snort and rolled his eyes instead. 

Despite her vocal protests about not needing or wanting to do it, Aranea had remained steady in her pursue of her education. She'd staunchly refused to enroll into school, but considering her past and her personality and her general ease to choose violence as a first reaction to pretty much anything, Cor figured that wasn't a bad thing. She'd passed her exams for elementary and middle school equivalents with the expected ease, though the preparation for the next round to gain her high school credits seemed to be stretching into another year at least. She was a proud creature, Aranea, even if she loathed the task she'd been given, her pride would not allow her to do it by halves. Her apprenticeship with the Kingsglaive was going well, too, according both to her and to Nyx. Cor was not exactly worried about her, per se, not in any way that was easy to articulate. Not like Nyx worried about Prompto, at any rate. He understood her, he thought, and that was enough, most days. 

Cor plucked the book off her face gently, and stuck a stray pen from the table in it, to mark the page as he closed it and put it on the table. Then he bowed his back and sneaked his arms beneath her, hoisting her up with ease. She groaned under her breath, but didn't immediately lash out, going limp in his arms instead. 

“I can walk on my own,” Aranea muttered groggily, face tucked against his shoulder. 

“I know,” Cor said quietly, against the crown of her head as she seemed to snuggle into the hold, breathing slowing again. 

He stood there a moment, watching her carefully, unable to put to words the bubbling in the pit of his stomach. Then he sighed and headed upstairs, climbing sideways so her feet and her head didn't bang up against the walls. He carefully fumbled with the doorknob to her room, trying not to jostle her as he coaxed it open. He shifted her into one arm, almost sitting on the crook of his elbow, while he reached with his free hand to pull back the covers of her bed and slowly placed her down on it. She squirmed under the covers on her own, rolling around to turn her back to him, and he let out the tiniest snort possible, before he pulled the covers over her, settling her in. He stood there a moment longer, running his eyes around the sparsely decorated room. 

It was very neat and very clean, a fact Nyx bemoaned to Prompto on occasion, particularly when he tripped on a stray toy truck left abandoned in the hallway. But Cor disliked it deeply, because he understood Aranea, and he knew what it meant. Beneath the apparent order, all Cor could see was a soldier ready to march out, at a moment's notice. It was a profoundly ingrained habit, one that took many, many years to full break out of – Cor had been living in the apartment four years, the first time he allowed himself to let the dishes pile up in the sink after dinner, leaving them for the next morning. Nyx's obliviousness to it annoyed him, because Nyx was a soldier and he had no shortage of experience with that kind of thing. But then he would remember that Nyx was Galahdian, too, and that they made homes for themselves out of nothing if necessary, wherever they felt safe. 

He turned to leave but froze before he could give out a step. 

There, thrown on the floor, tucked up against the closet doors, was a shirt. As if Aranea had shrugged it off carelessly and then let it fall without a second thought. It was a very, very small thing, and it probably meant nothing. 

Probably. 

Cor still sneaked out of the room with a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. 

* * *

The second week of Nyx's deployment to escort the Oracle in her visit to Cleigne, the world conspired to test Cor's patience. 

There was another demonstration to protest the ceasefire against Nilfheim, as one of the most radicalized groups in Insomnia clamored for the King to order the complete annihilation of the Empire. Aranea got into a brawl in a bar – Cor needed to push for harsher penalties for serving alcohol to minors, she kept finding places that took her at her word and he was tired of Monica's judging looks when she inevitably delivered her to his office or his doorstep. His attempts to socialize with Arcturius Mancipo, the seat in Regis' council in charge of Agriculture, had gone sour after he'd made a decidedly tactless comment on the subject of refugees, so that was a seat he knew for certain was not going to support this radical idea of his, that Lucian citizens from beyond the wall should be afforded any measure of dignity. 

And then Prompto had apparently gotten into a fist fight at school. 

“He's not in trouble,” Letho reassured him, after she guided him to her claustrophobically small office. “I made sure of that. He stood up for another classmate after all, and no one's hurt, but it is school policy that parents are informed when their children are involved in any sort of... altercation.” 

She was nervous around him, he could tell. Nyx liked her, and considered her opinion on his parenting skills to be the bar against which he measured himself. Cor had met her only a handful of times, most notably during Nyx's birthday party the year prior. Nyx insisted she was loudspoken and blunt and a little overzealous, but he always said so with a wry, fond smile on his face. Alone in his presence, however, Cor noted she was withdrawn, careful with her words. He was used to inspiring that reaction, and so he didn't hold it against her. 

“You sound pleased,” he mused, one eyebrow twitching vaguely upwards as she flushed in embarrassement. “Despite it all.” 

“Prompto is a good boy,” Letho replied with conviction, despite the red on her cheeks. She licked her lips. “You and Nyx are doing a good job with him.” 

Cor shrugged almost delicately. 

“Nyx is responsible for that,” he said, with a tiny twitch to his mouth. “Prompto's his son, after all. I mostly watch and laugh, when something goes awry.” 

“Prompto doesn't think so,” Letho pointed out, pushing up her glasses with a ghost of a smile. “He speaks very fondly of you, Marshal.” 

Cor hummed in the back of his throat, unsure how to actually reply to that, and shrugged again as he realized she was trying to convey her approval to him. Letho cleared her throat and shuffled the papers in her desk, as if to dismiss the entire exchange. 

“I shouldn't take more of your time,” she said, offering a peacemaking smile. “But as I said, school policy. With Nyx away, you were our only contact listed.” She pursed her lips. “Prompto can stay the rest of the day, if it's an incon-” 

“No,” Cor said, quiet and calm, but very final. Letho blinked at him. “He's upset,” he added, and very pointedly ignored the flash of delighted smile that she swallowed back almost as soon as it took hold of her expression. “He's had enough excitement for a day.” 

“Of course,” Letho agreed, nodding, and Cor got the feeling she was laughing at him. 

* * *

Clarus walked into Cor's office without knocking – one of only three people who ever did so, the others being Nyx and the King himself – and stopped short when he realized Prompto was lying on the floor in the middle of it, doodling. Cor watched dispassionately as Clarus' expression turned pinched, clearly deeming whatever he'd come to tell him unsuitable for young ears, but not so pressing that he'd ask him to leave so he could tell Cor about it. Mostly he seemed a little taken aback by Prompto's presence all together. The frown worried Cor a sliver, however. That was Clarus' Lecturing frown, and it let him know that, whenever they next met in private, he was not going to enjoy the conversation. 

It disappeared the moment Prompto noticed him, however, and smiled brightly at him. 

“Hi!” Prompto said, beaming effortlessly up at him. 

“Hello, young man,” Clarus replied graciously, smiling down at him. “Shouldn't you be in school right now?” 

Prompto's expression fell so dramatically it made Clarus wince. He stuck out his bottom lip, eyes staring at the floor and ducked his head, contrite. Cor took pity on both. 

“There was a... situation,” he said, shrugging as Clarus' gaze turned to him, piercing. “I reckoned he could use the rest of the day off.” 

“Cor said I could stay and draw, if I was quiet,” Prompto added, earnest. “I'm being good!” 

“I've no doubt you are,” Clarus replied and then gave in to temptation to drop to one knee, so he could reach down and ruffle Prompto's hair. Prompto laughed and basked in the attention, grinning. Clarus turned his eyes to Cor, as his expression sobered. “They called you?” Then he sighed. “It is kind of you, to see to Nyx's son in his absence,” he said, though something in his tone made Cor uneasy again. “I would like to have a word with you about that, in fact. But perhaps later.” 

“Sure,” Cor said, tone carefully neutral. “I'll tell Monica to make room for it,” he lied, making a mental note to ask Monica to pack his schedule for the next few weeks as much as possible, to ensure Clarus wouldn't get a chance. 

“Thank you, my friend,” Clarus replied, smiling, because twenty years and he still hadn't figured out how to catch the sound of Cor's lies, thankfully. “Alas, no rest for the wicked, I'll see myself out.” 

“Have a good day, Clarus,” Cor told him, sincerely enough. 

“Bye!” Prompto added, blissfully unaware of the tension above his head. 

Cor grabbed his phone from the desk and dialed Monica's number on reflex. 

* * *

Cor managed to avoid Clarus well after Nyx came back. 

“So what did you do to him?” Nyx asked him one morning, drying his hair as he watched Cor carefully groom his beard in the sink. 

“Nothing I can think of,” Cor replied, wiping the straight razor he liked to use for the task. “But then, it's Clarus. He doesn't need a reason.” 

Nyx snorted and leaned in to rub a thumb on Cor's cheek, testing his handy work, before he pressed his mouth to his skin. 

“You're awfully cute, when you're acting five years old,” he said, and grinned when Cor rolled his eyes and shoved him off. “You also need a haircut,” he pointed out, smirking tauntingly as Cor pointedly ran the razor against the strop hanging from the wall. “Unless you've finally caved in to my fantasies and letting your hair grow.” 

“No,” Cor deadpanned, and went back to shaving even as Nyx snickered and walked out of the room. 

He knew how Clarus worked, anyway. He'd forget about whatever nonsense he was thinking, if Cor gave him enough time to move onto something else. He got like that every now and then, all parental and annoying, and if Cor didn't deflect it properly, he'd be subjected to a very long, very tiring lecture on whatever bit of his life Clarus was currently fixated on and clearly disapproved of. Cor's life had many such bits, and though he loved the man dearly, he did not appreciate being treated like a child. He hadn't appreciated it when he'd been a child, either. 

At least not from Clarus, anyway. 

It'd be fine. 

* * *

Clarus, however, was not going to let it go. Cor realized he'd underestimated him severely, when their next monthly meeting about Crownsguard business ended fifteen minutes early, on the dot, as if Clarus had arranged it so. 

“Sit down, Cor,” Clarus told him, in a voice that booked no arguments. “There's one last thing I'd like to discuss with you, now that we're done with work.” 

Cor was known to fight to the bitter end, anything and anyone who stood in his way. But he also knew when he'd been outmatched. He sighed loudly as he dropped back on the chair, and gave Clarus an unamused look. He knew he wasn't going to enjoy this conversation, whatever it was about, and he wanted Clarus to be aware of this fact. Clarus' lips thinned into a flat line. 

“You know very well I dislike meddling in your personal affairs,” Clarus began, and Cor snorted loud and irreverent, like he was fifteen again. 

“And yet you're so very good at it,” he said, pointedly sliding down the chair two inches just to drive the point home. 

Clarus flushed, but shouldered on, regardless. 

“Yet, as a friend,” he said, “as someone who deeply _cares_ for you, I feel the need to speak up, every time you insist on being self-destructive.” 

Cor blinked, slightly taken aback. Not because Clarus would feel that way, since he was, despite it all, one of his oldest friends and someone who'd always had Cor's best interests at heart, even if his execution of that concern wasn't always welcome. No, Cor was surprised because by his estimation the last few years had been some of the least self-destructive he'd had in his life. He was keenly aware why, too, which was why he didn't feel like picking up that argument with Clarus any time soon. 

“Self-destructive,” Cor deadpanned, hoping that maybe not arguing would make Clarus go through his piece quickly and let the whole thing be done already. 

“You're still living with Nyx Ulric,” Clarus said, frowning like it meant something. Cor stared at him blankly. Clarus sighed loudly. “Cor, you're raising his son,” he said, but his tone was gentle, like he was trying not to upset him. “It's clear you have feelings for the man, but you can't keep going like this.” Cor continued to stare, no longer even in the ballpark of guessing where the hell Clarus was going with that. “He's young and still picking his life up, but surely you understand he will want to settle in, eventually. Perhaps even marry.” 

“The topic has not come up yet,” Cor retorted dryly, not particularly sure how he'd ended up having this conversation. 

“But it might,” Clarus insisted, looking earnest and concerned enough it genuinely bit at Cor's conscience to just tell him to fuck off about it. “Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but soon enough.” He rolled his eyes when Cor's expression remained the same, instead of... whatever reaction he was hoping for. “Roommates do not come along, when you get married.” 

“Room-” Cor began, and then stopped. 

Oh. 

_Oh._

He laughed. An actual laugh, too, deep from his chest, because yes, he loved Clarus dearly, but that did not mean the man wasn't an idiot every now and then. 

“Clarus, we're-” 

“I know you don't think it's serious,” Clarus interrupted, frowning, “but I'm worried about you. Cor, you're in love with the man. You're raising his son. I know you, it's going to kill you, when he moves on.” 

“That's-” 

“Prompto's his son, Cor, not yours,” Clarus insisted, exhasperated, and somewhere in his gut, Cor felt the twist of genuine irritation putting a screeching halt to his amusement at the situation. “Yet you keep acting like he is. I _know_ you. You're attached, and I don't begrudge you for it, but you're setting yourself up for unspeakable heartbreak and as a friend I can't let it go unnoticed.” 

Rather than answer, because clearly he wasn't being trusted to answer for himself on the matter, Cor pulled out his phone. 

“Cor-” Clarus said, voice going from concerned to testy in a moment. 

Cor raised a hand as Nyx picked up the line. 

“Nyx? Clarus is lecturing me,” he said, in lieu of a greeting. 

“...okay?” Nyx replied, clearly confused. 

Cor resisted the urge to snort. 

“I think you should hear this one, we're in his office.” 

There was a small pause. 

“Be there in five, then,” Nyx replied, in a tone that made Cor imagine him shrugging, blissfully unaware of anything being amiss. 

Clarus glared at him. 

“If you think I'm not going to say what I have to say,” he said, folding his arms over his chest and looking down at Cor like he was a misbehaving teenager, “just because he's here, you're wrong.” 

“I meant every word,” Cor replied, rolling his eyes. “He should absolutely hear this.” 

“I know you dislike it when I meddle,” Clarus insisted, scowling at him, “but that's what friends do, Cor. We meddle when our friends are heading straight for disaster.” 

“Like I said,” Cor retorted, “I think Nyx should hear this.” 

“You are the-” 

Nyx chose that moment to let himself into the room. Clarus spluttered and then stood up straight, trying to compose himself. Cor blinked at him. 

“That wasn't five minutes,” he pointed out, one eyebrow arched. 

Nyx shrugged. 

“You sounded weird,” he said, and then grinned sheepishly. “So I might. Have warped up the stairs. On my way here.” Cor smirked at him, and Nyx grinned back, sticking his hands in the pockets of his pants. “So... what's this about?” 

Clarus hesitated for a moment, and then charged head on with all the grace and tact of a bull. 

“This idiot,” he said, pointing at Cor with a very accusing finger, “is in love with you.” 

Nyx stared at him, clearly waiting for a follow up. This was not the reaction Clarus was expecting. Cor snorted. 

“He means to say,” he murmured solicitously, “that he's concerned that my feelings for you are unrequited and will end in, his words not mine, unspeakable heartbreak because of it.” 

Nyx blinked. 

“What do you-” he paused. Blinked again. Then he stared at Clarus for a bit, squinting somewhat. “Oh. _Oh_.” He snorted and shared a look with Cor. “I get you.” 

“I knew you would,” Cor replied, corner of his lip twitching up slightly. 

“You've got very caring friends, Marshal,” Nyx pointed out, clearly more amused at the situation than Cor, but then that was why Cor had called him in, in the first place. 

“I do, don't I,” Cor deadpanned. 

Clarus was staring at them, clearly at loss of what was going on. 

“Cor is very lucky to have a friend like you, Lord Amicitia,” Nyx told him, entirely too politely for his tastes, and it made alarm bells begin to scream in his head. “But your concern is sorely misplaced.” 

“Is it?” Clarus asked, trying to wrestle control of the conversation back, but then spluttered gloriously when Nyx slid into Cor's lap, holding his stare over his shoulder as he did so. 

“Yes,” Nyx said, in a taunting, teasing tone, and then bent down to kiss Cor nonchallantly. 

Clarus flushed instantly. 

“Oh,” he said, voice small and embarrassed, but all he got in reply was Cor's hands sliding around Nyx's waist as the kiss deepened. Clarus cleared his throat. “Gentlemen,” he tried again, voice strangled. Nyx moaned low in his throat. “I believe you've made your point!” Clarus cried out indignantly. 

Cor stood up in reply, pulling Nyx up with him as he went, and went to drop Nyx onto Clarus' desk, still without breaking the kiss. 

Clarus made a sound best described as a panicked squawk and all but ran out of the room. 

“Just for clarification,” Nyx asked, breathless and delighted in a way that made Cor's entire being ache for him, “are we actually going to fuck on his desk?” 

“No,” Cor replied, snorting as he pulled back and helped Nyx back on his feet. “But he doesn't have to know that.” 

Nyx blinked at him, and then laughed, reaching out to wrap his arms around his shoulders. 

“You are the greatest asshole in the world,” he said, but then slid one arm down to sit comfortably around Cor's waist and reached with his free hand to muse up the papers all over Clarus' desk. 

Cor shrugged, unrepentant, and did not point out it had been Nyx who'd kissed him in the first place. 

“...when the situation calls for it, yes.” 

* * *

Regis sent Cor a bottle of very expensive brandy, when he found out about the incident. So did Anemone. 

Cor locked them up in his study, and waited for the inevitable aftermath, once Clarus was able to look at him in the eye again. 

* * *

Cor walked into the living room on Friday evening, to find Libertus, Crowe, Pelna and Pelna's wife, Amira, sitting with Nyx and playing cards. In the garden, Prompto, Harit and Scilpio were playing a very heated game of tag. 

“You're home early,” Nyx pointed out, and then forcefully kept Pelna from standing to attention on reflex. 

Cor shrugged. 

“Slow day,” he said, sliding off the jacket and then snorting a little unkindly. “Don't stop on my account, I'll be downstairs.” 

He was well aware Nyx's friends did not much care for him. Well, Crowe did like him, he was almost sure, if only because she never seemed to be actively intimidated by his presence. Libertus, on the other hand, had never worn anything other than a scowl on his face, whenever Cor was around. And Pelna and his fear of him were almost a running gag. Cor had met Amira a few times before, but she was looking at him with nervousness that echoed her husband's. 

Cor didn't take it personally, really, but he did make an effort to keep himself away from Nyx's social circle and avoid conflict. He wasn't the most social creature in the planet, after all, and most of Nyx's friends were Galahdian and understandably uneasy around natives from Insomnia. 

“Sit your ass down,” Nyx told him, rolling his eyes mightily. “Grab a beer and let me fleece you.” 

Cor hesitated a moment, just enough to gauge Nyx's expression, before he sighed. 

“Deal me in, then,” he said, moving over to sit on the armrest next to Nyx, “but I'll pass on the beer, for now.” 

“Why?” Libertus asked him, growling defensively, “not fancy enough for you?” 

Nyx reached to kick him under the table, at the same time Crowe punched his shoulder. Libertus kept staring at Cor challengingly, as if trying to gauge his worth and not very impressed so far. Cor shrugged. 

“I'm driving back to the Citadel at some point tonight,” Cor explained, lips twitching in amusement, “despite what Aranea might have led you to believe, it would be in poor taste for me to get arrested for drunken driving.” 

“Oh, Aranea,” Crowe said, laughing as Libertus was left blinking at Cor, not sure how to reply to that. “I love that girl.” 

“You would,” Nyx muttered dryly, shuffling the cards for the next hand. 

“I understand the fondness is mutual,” Cor murmured, watching Nyx's hands as he dealt, rather than the look of surprise on Crowe's face. “I do believe she does see you as something of a role model, Crowe.” 

“Oh,” Crowe said, looking embarrassed. “Thank you, sir.” 

Cor shrugged. 

“Cor, Crowe,” he snorted, looking at her with an arched eyebrow. “I do exist outside work.” He paused and rolled his eyes as Nyx nudged his side with an elbow. “Sometimes.” 

“That's what I thought,” Nyx said, grinning. 

Cor noticed Libertus staring at him still, but decided to focus on the game, instead. It took a while, but between Cor's refusal to go easy on them in the game and Nyx easy laughter, plus a generous helping of beer, the group relaxed eventually. Libertus was still sharp in his comments, but he didn't seem to find Cor's deadpan so offensive as to not snark back. Pelna lost most of his stuttering when they shifted the topic to their children, and then he was excitedly sharing stories with a smile and a light in his eyes that made it painfully, patently obvious how much he loved his sons. Amira had thoughts about politics, and six hands in, she had no fear of Cor knowing it. Crowe just laughed and cheated and Cor let her, because someone needed to take Nyx down a peg. 

There was a small pause when the children moved inside, tired and seeking a place to pass out in, and Prompto zeroed in on Cor's lap, rather than Nyx's. 

Cor met the stares with a straight face and a royal flush in his hand. 

* * *

Cor had left around one to pick up Aranea, and returned to find his living room littered with passed out Galahdians. He'd shuffled Aranea back into her room, dragged Nyx back to theirs, and then, after checking that Prompto, Harit and Scilpio were asleep in Prompto's room, he'd gone and faceplanted into bed. It had been a fairly acceptable evening, but Cor was not very social by nature, and the disruption to his usual routine drained him more than he wanted to admit. On the other hand, it made Nyx happy. 

“I guess you're alright,” Libertus told him, the next morning, coming to sit next to him on the steps. “A little.” 

Cor arched an eyebrow at him, but Libertus didn't wilt. He shrugged awkwardly, but didn't immediately continue. Libertus was certainly not the person Cor enjoyed spending most of his mornings with – that honor belonged to the blond menace currently still snoring upstairs – but Cor found that, for all his abbrassiveness, he didn't dislike the man. 

“You get it, right,” Libertus said eventually, pressing his lips tightly. “That he doesn't know what the fuck he's doing? With the kid and you and...” He waved a hand at the house in general. “This. He's a dumb idiot in over his head, and if you're gonna just... drop him, when you get bored-” 

Cor took a deep breath, hissed it out through his teeth, and said: 

“I'm not.” 

Libertus frowned. 

“You don't know that,” he said. “You think you're okay, but then shit'll hit the fan-” 

“Then we'll deal with it,” Cor interrupted, and then put the mug down by his feet, folding his arms because it was cold out. “Libertus.” Libertus glowered at him. Cor smiled tiredly. “Is he or is he not happy here?” 

“...yeah,” he replied, scowling. 

“Then assume there's a reason for it,” Cor told him, one eyebrow arched, “and let's just save this conversation for the time, if it ever comes, when he's no longer content to be here, with me.” Cor's lip twitched. “I'll let you get in a free shot, too.” 

Libertus stared at him, looking like he'd sucked on something sour. 

“You're an asshole,” he said finally, sighing. 

“I've been told so, on occasion, yes,” Cor deadpanned, and then his expression softened as he heard familiar steps coming down the stairs. 

Prompto dropped himself into his lap and then blinked up at him, staring at his head. 

“You cut your hair!” 

Cor snorted. 

“Good morning to you too,” he said, but dutifully bowed his head so Prompto could sink his fingers into his hair, giggling at the feeling. 

“Morning,” Prompto said, and then bent his head to give Libertus a bright smile. “Hi.” 

“Hi yourself,” Libertus replied, smiling despite himself, before he caught Cor's eye and arched an eyebrow. “One shot's all I'd need.” 

Cor shrugged even as Prompto cooed about him being fuzzy under his breath. 

“I'll keep it in mind.” 

Fuck him, really, but Libertus actually believed him. 

* * *


	10. year vii

* * *

_year vii_

* * *

“So how does it work, anyway?” Nyx asked, standing by the flap of the tent and watching Queen Sylva slowly wash her hands in a crystal bowl that hummed if you stood too close to it. “I mean. If I can know.” 

The Oracle stopped for a moment, looking at him over her shoulder. The tent was wide and tall, and easily the size of the living room, back home. The thick, white linen was woven with golden threads, into designs and patterns that glowed blue at night, like the magic runes in havens. He'd asked about that, too, but Sylva had merely said they were prayers. He asked a lot of questions, during these trips, accompanying the Oracle during her tours of the land, protecting her from monsters and the unspoken threat of the Empire, still dormant after the Glacian's death and its devastating consequences. Some questions, Sylva would answer, voice kind and gentle, like tiny ringing bells. Others, she would deflect, or answer with truths that Nyx didn't know enough about, to decipher. There were others still, that she refused to answer entirely. Nyx apologized after every such question, but she always invited him to ask again, regardless. 

He thought she enjoyed having someone to talk to, who didn't want anything from her. 

She was beautiful and kind and gracious, and also very, very lonely, in his opinion, but he did not share that thought with anyone, not even Cor. 

“I'm afraid you'll have to be a lot more specific, my dear,” she said, smiling wryly before she turned back to the water and continued slowly washing her hands. She pushed at her skin as she scrubbed, Nyx noted, as if she was squeezing something out of it. The water was always blackened, when she was done, but then it boiled over and vanished, before anyone could get too close. “There are many things you don't understand, and plenty more that are not yours to know.” 

Nyx snorted. 

“True that,” he replied, grinning easily. “The healing you do. How does it work? It's not like the healing magic the King gave us. Potions and elixirs and whatnot.” 

Sylva blinked at him, considering. 

“Do they not know of the Oracle, in Galahd?” She asked, frowning. “Of our gift?” 

Nyx's smile waned a little, turning wry. 

“In Galahd, no one speaks for you before the Storm,” he said, and resisted the urge to fiddle with his braids and the shiny beads at the end of each. “I don't think the Oracle has ever _been_ to Galahd, to be honest, nor I imagine you'll be going there any time soon.” 

Sylva pressed her lips together, thoughtful. She stared at the bowl, as the contents disappeared, and then went to sit by the table, where a servant had left her dinner. 

“Perhaps I will, one day,” she said, and nodded. “You'll have to show me around, I'm afraid.” 

“I'd love to,” Nyx replied, eyes cloudy despite himself, “if you ever go. I won't forgive you if you take someone else with you.” 

“It's a promise, then,” she said, smiling kindly. Then sighed, and looked twenty years older by the time she was done. “As to your question... the world is ill, Nyx, and has been for eons. It is an illness that will consume it and all those in it, should it go uncontested. Thus the Oracle and our calling, forever holding back the tide, waiting for the coming of the King, Chosen by the Crystal. The King of Light will purge this scourge from our Star, and bring back balance that has long since been lost. I heal what I can, as my mother did, as my daughter will, and on and on we'll go, until he comes to deliver us to Light.” 

“Sounds ominous,” Nyx said, after a long silence just taking it all in. “Also kind of a shitty deal.” Sylva barked a laugh, and covered her face with her hands. Nyx grinned at her, then sobered slightly. “We don't really have stories like that, in Galahd.” 

“Will you tell me some?” Sylva asked, and did not invite him to seat with her, because he'd rebuked her enough times she knew better by then. “I must admit, I do not know much about your homeland. Don't know much about Lucis, as a whole, since I never really left Tenebrae before the... incident. Pilgrims came to me, not the other way around. Though I must admit I rather enjoy the role reversal.” 

“It's okay,” Nyx chuckled, “no one really gives a shit about Galahd, except those of us who were born there.” Sylva laughed again, and tried to swallow it back, again. She didn't chide him for it, though, which Nyx always took for approval. He shrugged. “There isn't much to say, really. It's beautiful, in a feral, vicious kind of way. The sort that'll kill you, if you don't keep your wits about you. The food's good. The people are assholes, but you love them anyway. It's just... home.” Nyx swallowed hard. “Was home. Then the Empire came and did the only thing the Empire knows how to do, and it burned it to the ground.” 

“Like Tenebrae,” Sylva said quietly, smile kind but without pity, and Nyx loved her for it, he really did. 

“Like Tenebrae,” he agreed, though he did reckon there was a difference between a refugee like him, and a Queen like her, drespite their shared loss. 

That she tried to bridge that difference, regardless, was kind of her, and he did appreciate it, even if the wound was too raw still. He didn't think that wound would ever not be raw. He was resigned to carry that piece of hurt with him, until the day he died. 

“You know what's silly?” Sylva asked him, sitting back, her plate untouched. Nyx made a questioning sound in the back of his throat, head tilted slightly to the side. “The breeze in winter. It's what I miss the most. The chill that sat in your bones, not enough to hurt, but just right to make you feel alive. I miss that.” 

Nyx swallowed hard, and did not meet her eyes. 

“The rain,” he whispered, “I miss the rain the most.” 

* * *

Nyx found, over the years, that his office had become a sanctuary of sorts. 

In the beginning, with the sting of Glauca's betrayal still fresh in his soul and the weight of his inherited title, the room had felt claustrophobic, and he'd done his honest best to avoid it as much as he could. There had been many people who'd needed him, then, and an almost endless pile of work that needed doing. So he'd rolled up his sleeves and set out to tend to the Kingsglaive the same way he'd set out to look after his son: without the faintest clue as to how to go about it, but determined to see it through regardless. He spoke with his men and got to know them, personally: their likes and dislikes, their hopes and fears. He wanted a connection with them, something solid and meaningful, beyond their shared desire to go home. He met their families, their children. He heard their stories: all the same at the core, and yet each unique. If he'd learned one thing, from Glauca, it was that trust could not be built on hatred, no matter how closely shared. 

It was the only thing Nyx would allow himself to admit he learned from Glauca, though the truth burned quietly in his bones, every time he called magic to his aid. 

But then the years had gone by, and the Kingsglaive had endured, despite the infighting and the pressure put on them. They had survived the battles and the realizations, afterwards, that not all of them had made it back. They had survived the hazing from the Crownsguard and the scorn from all Insomnia, even as they risked their lives for it. They had survived Tenebrae and Ravatogh and the Glacian's wrath. 

They had survived the war. 

And yet they still had not gone home. Nyx heard the whispers and the bitterness, and he did his best to assuage them. Soon. 

Soon. 

And bit by bit, the office had grown roomier, the more time he was forced to spend in it. The more he switched the books out – they had left Glauca's books in there, the ones the Crownsguard hadn't taken for their investigation, anyway – for his own, the more he brought in bits and pieces of his life into it. The room became his own, and he found himself at peace in it, no longer crushed under a title too unwieldy for him to hold. It was an odd feeling, the realization that he could breathe and be himself, if only for a moment, inside the room he'd once loathed so much. He wondered if Cor had ever felt that way. 

Nyx stared at the screen of his laptop and buried his face into his hands. 

It had been easier, being in charge, when the war was still ongoing. Then all that had mattered was that his plans were not stupid and that his men made it out of it alive. But now? Now he needed to keep jumping hoops to fight back against increasingly snide proposals to cut down the size of his forces. He needed new, creative ways to demonstrate their usefulness, and each audience before the King's council felt more and more like he was whoring out his men. It had to be done, though. Nyx knew his men, their families, their children. He knew what it meant, if they lost funding and support. 

He did what needed to be done, always. 

Always. 

He closed the laptop, proposal for the King only halfway done, and pulled out his phone. 

“Are you busy?” He asked, as soon as Cor picked up. 

“Not too terribly,” Cor replied. “Why?” 

“Wanna go out for lunch?” Nyx asked, licking his lips. “Like... out of the Citadel, maybe? I just don't want to be at work today.” 

Cor was quiet for a moment. 

“Fine,” he murmured, and Nyx could imagine, just by the sound, the precise expression on his face. “But I'm driving.” 

Which meant he was paying, too. Nyx would have argued, but his heart just wasn't in it. 

“Sure.” 

Lunch was quiet, but not awkward. Cor drove them to a small hole in the wall, nearly an hour away from the Citadel, and ordered for them both. Nyx basked in the silence and the food and admitted to himself he was very, very tired. 

“Do you ever want to just... quit? Everything?” Nyx asked, as they walked back to the car. 

“Sometimes,” Cor admitted, shrugging. 

“So why don't you?” Nyx pressed, feeling unbalanced and not really sure how to fix it beyond letting it out. 

Cor stopped, just before they reached the car and Nyx nearly walked into him. He stared at him, one eyebrow arched. For once, Nyx didn't quite know what that meant. He shrugged. Then took a sharp breath, when Cor reached out for him and kissed him. It took Nyx a moment to react, but then he was tilting his head and kissing back, his arms falling into place around Cor's waist. 

“That's why,” Cor whispered, blue eyes intense and piercing, as he stared Nyx in place. 

Nyx dropped his head into his shoulder, chuckling, and didn't even care if his face was warm with embarrassment. 

“Point taken.” 

* * *

A few weeks later, Nyx found himself sitting on an infirmary bed, shoulder-to-shoulder with Cor. He'd gotten careless, in a simple training drill, and one of the newest recruits had ended up stabbing him for his trouble. The poor boy had bursted out crying as a result, which honestly Nyx found a lot more troublesome than the wound itself. Cor had gotten himself shot, somehow. They had taken it rather well, all things considered, joking about while they waited for treatment, but then rather than the stern-faced nurse that had received them, the King had entered the room. 

They weren't able to get a word in, before Regis unceremoniously – and quite callously, Nyx thought privately – smashed a hi-elixir in each of their heads. The magic flowed into them quite effectively, much more powerful than any sort of magical healing Nyx had ever experienced. It felt a bit like a kick to the teeth, actually. He was alert and ready to fight off a mountain, if necessary, and as he patted his side, he found the wound closed and scarred already. 

“How old are you?” The King asked Cor, expression pinched. 

“Regis-” 

“How _old_ are you?” The King insisted, eyes narrowed. 

Cor sighed. 

“Thirty-four,” he replied, lips twisted into a frown. “I don't-” 

“Shut up,” Regis commanded sharply, eyes narrowed. “And you?” He added, turning to face Nyx. “How old are you?” 

Nyx resisted the urge to duck his head. 

“Twenty-seven, your Majesty.” 

“Thirty-four, Marshal of the Crownsguard, and shot in a routine bank robbery,” Regis said, pinning Cor down with a very unamused look. His eyes shifted to Nyx, easily enough. “Twenty-seven, Commander of the Kingsglaive, and stabbed near fatally during a training accident.” He paused, just enough to let the words sink in. “On the same day. Gentlemen, has any of you ever heard of the notion of _delegation_?” 

“I was right there,” Cor snapped, scowling thunderously. “Was I supposed to do nothing?” 

“All due respect, Your Majesty,” Nyx followed quickly, before Regis could answer, “I'm the best master of warping among the 'glaives. Should I not try to pass along that skill to all my men?” 

Regis looked unmoved by their explanations. Nyx thought he looked rather Kingly, though not exactly in a way he enjoyed having directed at him. 

“I want you both out,” Regis said, glaring. 

“...of the room?” Cor asked, because he was a suicidal idiot with no fear of god and Nyx loved him, he did, but he could not deny the truth. 

“Of the city,” Regis deadpanned, and arched an eyebrow when they stared, gaping, at him. “I'm ordering you both to take time off. I don't want to see either of you, for at least a week.” 

“Regis-” 

“Shut your mouth, Cor,” Regis snapped back, a whole lot less Kingly but also twice as terrifying because of it. “Or I'll make it a _month_.” 

Cor closed his mouth without a sound. 

“...can we at least take today to wrap up things?” Nyx asked meekly, hands raised in surrender. “Please?” 

“If either of you are still here by tomorrow,” Regis replied, scowling, “I'm reassigning you both to Lestallum for the rest of the year.” 

Nyx winced as the King gave them both one last glare before he swept out of the room, all dignity and command. 

“...I guess we _are_ fucking off to Galdin after all, huh?” Nyx muttered, looking at his feet. 

Cor snorted. 

“I suppose we are.” 

* * *

They didn't actually fuck off to Galdin. 

Not right away, anyway. After rushing through priorities at work and trying their best to set up their respective forces to survive without them for the upcoming week, they also had to sort out their kids. Because they couldn't just leave them behind, and Nyx was starting to accept the fact Cor might be right about the King being an asshole. Aranea didn't have any pressing business that needed to be sort out, but Letho took pleasure tormenting Nyx for a while, before reassuring him she'd deal with Prompto's absences for him. 

Then they'd set out, Cor at the driver's seat, Nyx staring at the landscape at his side, and Prompto and Aranea bickering in blissful oblivion in the back. 

“You sure you're okay with this?” Cor asked, slowing down as the large sign appeared in the distance. 

Nyx marveled the fact the entire garage did in fact look like a hammerhead shark, and swallowed hard. He didn't know much about Cid, save bits and pieces that Cor had shared almost hesitantly over the years, so he wasn't sure what to expect exactly. But Cor had asked if they could make this stop, and that was enough for Nyx to know this was actually important to him. 

“Sure as I'll ever be,” Nyx said, offering a lopsided smile. 

“Ever brave in the face of disaster,” Cor muttered, as he approached the garage, “let's see how long you last.” 

“Seven years and counting, right?” Nyx taunted back, and smirked at the look on Cor's face. The smirk softened into a smile, as he looked away. “Turns out I'm just not a quitter, after all.” 

The rest of the ride was quiet, on their side, though Aranea and Prompto continued their bickering without the faintest shade of shame. 

“You're late,” Cid said, as old and worn as Cor had made him sound, standing by the garage doors with his hands on his hips. 

“Traffic,” Cor replied, coming to stand before the shorter man, and Nyx had the sudden realization, as he watched Cor fold his arms over his chest, that he was nervous. 

“Traffic shmaffic,” Cid retorted, snorting viciously. “You can just admit you _still_ drive like an old grandma.” 

Aranea choked on a little laugh at that, while Prompto hid a little more, behind Nyx's leg. He was always a little unsure about strangers, in the beginning, while she never wasted the chance to laugh at someone, and it was rare for Cor to be the target of it. Nyx reached a hand to pat Prompto's head reassuringly, trying to nudge him to stand in front of him. 

“With my kids in the car?” Cor deadpanned back, voice clear and crisp, leaving no edge of ambiguity there. “Yes.” 

Nyx stared at Cor, just a little. Not because it wasn't true, but because he'd... said it. Cor and words were not friends, and Nyx knew and understood that fact of life very well by then. What really mattered was what Cor did, and Nyx didn't need words, most of the time, because Cor's actions really did speak louder than anything he could say. And yet, somehow, something inside Nyx twitched at the acknowledgement. It was like Cor kissing him in the street: he didn't need it, but it was nice that it had happened. 

“Your kids, huh?” Cid replied, amused but not mocking. “Must've been driving like a grandma with arthritis then.” Cor shrugged and then let himself be wrapped in a bone-crushing hug. Nyx decided he liked Cid, right there and there. Cid pulled back and squinted at him. “Nyx Ulric, I suppose,” he said, letting go of Cor to step closer to him. Prompto hid a little more, behind Nyx, even as he reached out to shake Cid's hand. “Cid Sophiar, kid, at your service.” Before Nyx could reply, Cid pulled him in, arms sliding easy around his back. “Thanks,” Cid told him, quiet enough he doubted Cor had heard, before letting him go. “Am I gonna get a name out of you, this time around?” He smirked at Aranea. 

“Aranea Highwind,” she replied, and folded her arms over her chest as she tossed her head back dramatically, “and you'll get a fucking kick in the teeth if you try the hug thing.” 

“Aranea,” Cor said, warningly, but Cid only laughed and reached out to punch his arm lightly. 

“Shut the hell up,” he said, grinning easily, “or you've forgotten what _you_ told me, the first time I met you? 'Cause I haven't.” Nyx marveled at the fact Cor actually blushed at that, expression constipated. Aranea laughed, delighted. Cid turned to the tiny blond still clinging to the back of Nyx's leg. “And you?” Cid asked, crouching so he was eye-level with Prompto. “Gonna kick me too?” 

“Kicking's bad,” Prompto muttered quietly, and shook his head. 

Cid ruffled his hair, smiling softening a sliver. 

“And your name?” 

“Prompto Argentum,” Prompto said, vowels dragging between his teeth. He swallowed hard and squinted right back at Cid. “You're _old_.” 

Cid laughed and ruffled his hair again. 

“That I am, kiddo,” he said, letting his hands rest on is hips, “and you know what that means?” He smirked as Prompto shook his head. “Means I'm _always_ right.” 

Cor snorted loudly, but didn't actually argue the point. Nyx took note of that, and filed it in the back of his head, to ponder on later. 

* * *

“I wouldn't be here, if it weren't for Cid,” Cor said the next morning, as they sat on the rafters of the workshop, arms hooked on the railing and feet dangling over the edge. 

They watched Cid almost a dozen feet below, dismantling an engine because Prompto asked a question about it. Aranea was in a corner, pretending not to be interested, but keeping an eye on everything Cid's hands were doing. There was a very graceful air to him, a confidence that made it hard to not look. Cindy, his granddaughter, followed after him, determined look on her face as she tried to pass along the tools before he asked for them. 

“I know we don't really... talk about our pasts, 'cause most of it is shit better left off not remembered,” Nyx said, licking his lips as he reached out a hand to hold Cor's nearest wrist. “So I don't know the whole story. I don't even know if you'd want me to know the whole story. But it still means a lot to me, that you'd want to bring us here.” 

Cor shifted his hand, until he was holding Nyx's, fingers entwined, and said nothing. Nyx looked at their hands for a moment, and then shuffled closer, until he could rest his head on Cor's shoulder, and he felt weirdly and entirely at peace. 

Then Cid laughed, down below, and said: 

“Cindy Aurum, you're an absolute bloody genius, my girl.” 

And his peace wilted a bit. 

“Aurum,” Nyx whispered, head snapping up to stare at Cor. “As in...” 

Cor smiled. 

“Cid fought the ocean,” he said, catching Nyx's eye with an amused, resigned look, and shrugged. “And Cid won.” 

* * *

A few days later, and in a less metaphorical fashion, Prompto was decidedly not winning his fight against the ocean. And by extension, neither was Nyx. The resort in Galdin was nice enough, though a decidedly less romantic endeavor than Nyx had initially meant it to be, when he'd joked about it. Neither Aranea nor Prompto had any real experience with the ocean or swimming – Nyx told himself he was not disappointed that Prompto did not remember his last visit to Galdin, and also reminded himself it was probably for the best, all things considered. So Nyx took it upon himself to get them better acquainted with the surf. Aranea took to it easily enough, being stubborn and competitive by nature, but Prompto was an entirely different matter. He was fine, in the shore, building sand castles and burying Cor until only his head was left. And he was okay, chasing the waves back and forth, kicking at the surf and laughing as the sand sank beneath his feet. But once his feet no longer touched the ground, he seized up in panic and clung to Nyx with strength that belied his size. 

Cor, because he was an absolute useless sack of shit who delighted in Nyx's misery, was of no help whatsoever, and instead parked himself on the nearby bar, drinking slowly and watching him fuss as he tried his best to teach Prompto how to swim. 

Well, that and keeping tabs on Aranea, that is. 

“She's sixteen!” 

Nyx snickered at the holler, watching Aranea flinch and turn to glare mightily at Cor, as the young man who'd approached her tensed and then hurriedly excused himself. Cor raised his glass in a toast, as Aranea made a very rude gesture at him, and though he was too far away to see it, Nyx had the distinct feeling he was smirking. 

“It's okay, Prom,” Nyx said, trying once more to pry himself free of Prompto's vice grip. “It's just water, little man. You don't have to be afraid.” 

“I'll sink,” Prompto whined, rigid like a board. “I'll sink and no one'll find me!” 

“You're not going to sink,” Nyx said gently, and then grinned, “and even if you did, I'd find you.” 

“But what if I sink really, really deep,” Prompto insisted, tears in his eyes. 

Nyx pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

“I'd still find you.” 

Prompto gave him a look half hopeful, half dubious, and Nyx couldn't help laughing at it. 

“It's okay, Prom,” he said, gently running a hand over his back. “Just feel the waves. It's just like the rainstorms, they seemed scary at first, but now you like them, right?” 

“She's sixteen!” Cor hollered again in the distance, a sliver more cheerfully this time, and that was how Nyx knew he was well on his way to getting drunk. 

“Storms are pretty,” Prompto muttered, completely unaware of the way Nyx's entire soul trembled with joy to hear him say that, and effectly reclaiming the whole of his attention. “They don't hurt if you're not afraid of them.” Prompto wrinkled his nose and shifted his hold, relaxing slightly. “Rain isn't salty, either.” 

“Fair enough,” Nyx chuckled, and just let himself float there, swimming lessons aborted in favor of allowing the surf lull Prompto out of his fear. 

It worked a little too well, he realized, when Prompto began snoring against his neck. Nyx snorted and slowly waded his way back to the shore, rolling with the surf. 

“I don't know how you do that,” Aranea told him, scowling as she walked up to meet him and they started making their way back to where Cor was waiting for them. 

“Do what?” Nyx asked, shifting Prompto until he was holding him with one arm, and then reaching out with his free hand to hold hers. 

Aranea scowled but did not actually pull her hand away. 

“Walking out without getting knocked over by the waves,” she said, nodding at the surf and also a poor man who clearly did not have Nyx's skill, since he ended up falling face first into the shore. 

Nyx snorted. 

“You spend enough time in the water, you eventually learn the rhythm of it,” he explained. “'sides, surf here is nice. It's a tourist trap, it has to be.” 

“Teach me, anyway,” she demanded, brows dipped down into a frown. “It looks cool.” 

Nyx laughed. 

“Nea, I can't teach you how to feel the ocean,” he said, one eyebrow arched. “You just have to... you know. Go out there and feel it.” 

She tugged at his hand sharply. 

“Fine. I'm gonna,” she said, jaw set stubbornly, “and you're coming with me when I do.” 

“Can that be after lunch, maybe?” Nyx asked a little hopefully, just as they reached Cor. 

“You can't go in the water after eating,” Aranea said, giving him a look that put his mental prowess in doubt. 

“Bullshit,” Nyx snorted. “Mainland folk just don't know how to hold their lunch down.” He smiled as Cor sighed and raised his arms, taking Prompto into his lap. “Had fun?” 

“She,” Cor replied, nodding at Aranea as he wrapped his arms around the sleeping boy, “is sixteen. Have you heard?” 

Aranea scoffed and let go of Nyx's hand so she could fold her arms over her chest. 

“Spoilsport.” 

* * *

“You and your storms,” Cor sighed, barely audible over the roar of rain and thunder, as he walked up the pier to go sit next to Nyx. “I suppose you're happy.” 

Nyx tilted his head back, letting the water fall on his face, and basked in the sound of the sky raging against the sea. 

“I am, actually,” he said, licking his lips and tasting salt and sulphur. He laughed as Cor squinted long-sufferingly at him. “I think I needed this. You know. A breather. It was nice.” 

“Regis does, on occasion, have ideas that are not utter and complete bullshit,” Cor muttered with a shrug. “But I'd advise not to expect all of them to be good.” 

“He's not that bad,” Nyx snorted, and then reached an arm for Cor's shoulders, tugging him down until he was laying on his side along the pier, head resting in Nyx's lap. 

“If I catch a cold,” Cor muttered, eyes sliding shut, “it'll be on your head.” 

“You only get a cold if you don't take a shower afterwards,” Nyx pointed out, fingers idly tracing the shape of his face. “A hot one,” he added, a touch suggestively, if only beccause it made Cor open one eye to stare pointedly at him, before he couldn't take the pelting of the rain anymore and closed it again. 

Nyx chuckled and sat back to watch the horizon and the dozen shades of black and purple in it. Night was a strange time, in Galdin, with so many powerful lights keeping the daemons away. Between that and the lightning flashing in the sky, everything seemed a bit surreal. Familiar, between the salt of the breeze and the coolness of the rain on his skin, but not. This was not Galahd, Nyx thought a little tiredly, and it wouldn't be no matter how much he willed it to. 

“I'm gonna ask him,” Nyx said, swallowing hard. “The King,” he clarified, when Cor made a quesitoning sound in the back of his throat. “I'm gonna ask him, to let us go home.” 

Cor sat up slowly, back to the sea and face close enough to study Nyx's, through the curtain of water. 

“Are you sure?” 

“The Empire's been quiet,” Nyx said, expression serene now that he'd voiced the thought chewing through his soul for so long. “We've been steadily pushing them out of Leide and Duscae, and only their bases in Cleigne are fully operational anymore. We could do the same, for Galahd.” He swallowed hard. “The Kingsglaive was built on a promise, Cor. We promised the King we would win the war for him, and we did. He promised he'd let us go home. I don't know how long they can keep waiting, like this. They want to go home.” 

Cor reached a hand up to tilt Nyx's face close. He wasn't from Galahd, he couldn't see better with water in his eyes, than without. So he needed to stay close, to really see Nyx's expression. 

“And you?” He asked quietly, eyes piercing and intense, rain dripping down his face and onto Nyx's. “What do you want?” 

Nyx thought of the grasslands blanketing the cliffs, barely hiding the jagged edges of that shiny, black rock that didn't crumble when you grabbed it, like the yellow stones in Leide or the red clay in Cleigne. He thought of the forests so thick the sun didn't touch the ground in places. He thought of the towns scattered around the coasts and the stray farms dotting the land further in. He thought of the drunken songs by the piers and the scent of fresh meat sizzling on the grill, blood still wet. Above all, he thought of the storm, blanketing the islands in rain and lightning, cradling them and making them strong. 

“I'm good,” Nyx told him, and leaned in to kiss the rain off his lips. 

When Cor kissed him back, he almost believed it. 

* * *


	11. year viii

* * *

_year viii_

* * *

“It's going to be bad,” Cor said, entering the bedroom with a frown dipping at his forehead, “I hope you realize.” 

Nyx ran the oiled rag along the edge of the blade, holding it up to scan for any imbalances, and shrugged. 

“I know.” 

“No,” Cor insisted, closing the door behind him. “You think it'll be bad, but you're still hoping it won't be.” He walked over to stand in front of Nyx and gently pulled the kukri and the rag off his hands, placing them on the bed by his side. He leaned in, staring at Nyx in the eye. “I'm telling you it is going to be bad.” 

“You know, it's been nearly a decade,” Nyx said, trying for a lighter tone, to try and balance out the storm in Cor's eyes, “and you're still the least reassuring creature I've ever met.” 

“I'm not trying to reassure you,” Cor snarled, hands reaching to hold Nyx's face up, tilted towards him, “I'm trying you _warn_ you.” 

“If you think I shouldn't go,” Nyx snapped irritably, “you should have told me that six months ago, when I first started making noise about this. Not the night before I set out.” 

“I think you should go,” Cor muttered, frustrated, and let go of him to go undress by his side of the bed. “You want to go. You need to, even. But if you stop and stumble, because it is bad but you didn't expect it to be _that_ bad, it'll very well get you killed before the heartbreak gets to you.” 

Nyx vanished the blade off into the void with a wave of his hand and walked up to Cor, wrapping his arms around him where he stood. 

“It will be terrible and it'll make me want to die,” Nyx whispered against his neck. “And eight years ago I would have let myself die, over this. But I can't, anymore, you understand?” Cor's fingers dug into his back, and Nyx knew he'd carry the bruises with him in the morning, and found he did not care one bit. “And it's not because I'm an arrogant shithead too strong to have ever found his match,” he added, grinning as Cor buried a desperate snort into his shoulder. “My life isn't just mine, anymore. It hasn't been for a very long time.” 

“I _know_ that,” Cor hissed fiercely and did not let him go, and Nyx felt love burst in the pit of his gut, like an overripe bubble, and then flood his veins until he was dizzy. 

Nyx kissed him, rather than tell him so. He made no promises, because Cor knew better than to believe those, and instead pulled him into bed and laid there, anchored in the certainty that, no matter what, it would be alright. 

It would be alright. 

* * *

In his heart of hearts, Nyx had wanted to bring the entirety of his men with him, for this trip. 

But then, he was Commander, now, and he knew what that meant, so he hadn't. He'd taken his closest, most trusted with him: Libertus for scouting, Crowe for sheer destruction and Pelna for strategy. They were good, they were dangerous, they were yearning. They set off from Insomnia one crisp spring morning, chill still in the air even though it hadn't snowed in weeks. They could see the storm from miles away, raging and furious as it screeched in the air with a note of incandescent wrath that made Sylva sway in place the closer they got to it. 

“...The Fulgurian is here,” she said, staring intently at the blackened sky and the occasional slice of lightning in it. “And He is not pleased.” 

“Guess Old Man Ramuh doesn't like these Nilfy shits anymore we do,” Libertus muttered snidely, and then seemed to remember their royal company, because he flushed brightly. “I-I mean, Your Holiness-” 

“At ease,” Sylva said, smiling wryly as she held onto Nyx for balance. “Your Commander has desensitized me quite a bit. I shan't tell if you won't, of course, so it can be our little secret.” 

“What have you been _doing_?” Pelna hissed at Nyx from his position at the helm, suitably scandalized, even as Crowe barked a laugh, loud and shapeless. 

“Serving the Crown and the Oracle as duty demands,” Nyx replied, mock-contrite, and then they all stared because Sylva gave a very unlady-like snort and rolled her eyes at him. Nyx pointed at her, rudely and without reverence. “She thinks havocfangs are _cute_.” 

“They're fairly agreeable when they're young,” Sylva muttered, looking away to avoid the stares. “And not hungry.” 

“Which they never are, so that's a moot point,” Nyx muttered, rolling his eyes right back at her. He whistled as they approached the edge of the storm, rain falling like a near solid window before them. “Navigating that storm is going to be fun.” 

“The storm is not natural,” Sylva said, frowning, and then stepped forward, summoning the trident into her hand. “So we may not have to.” 

“...why do I have a bad feeling about this?” Nyx asked out loud, staring at her and wondering where the hell she had even pulled that thing from. 

Sylva smiled. 

“Because you're not an idiot, my dear,” she told him, tilting her head back, “cherish the feeling.” 

Then she tapped the end of the trident on the floor and began to _glow._ Nyx had accompanied her through enough trips beyond Insomnia's Wall to know what her magic looked and felt like. This was different, and yet still the same. Powerful. There was a rumble of thunder all around them, as the sky grew even darker, clouds clustered tight enough to keep all light away. Sylva bowed her head, and tapped the trident again, and the storm _parted_. The curtain of rain opened before them, leaving a strip of eerily calm waters barely wide enough for their boat to pass through. 

“Okay,” Libertus said after a moment, staring at Sylva with wide eyes, “I'm impressed.” 

“You should be proud of that,” Crowe said, grinning at the Oracle with dancing eyes, “he's usually not impressed by anything that doesn't come with an alcohol level warning in the label.” 

They cracked a few more jokes, just to fill the silence as Pelna guided them towards a lone, half-rotten pier, but by the time they were standing on the shore, the laughter had died out entirely. The sand was sooty black, mixed with dust, and the air was thick with a sickly sweet scent, like rotting corpses, only _aged_. 

It got worse, the further in they got. The grass was dead and crunchy under their feet, despite the unending rain crashing down from the sky, each drop heavy and sharpened, like a knife. The sky was dark, ominous in a way that made them near sick with foreboding. The trees were burnt and dead, husks standing defiantly even though they crumbled to ash at the first touch. And above all, the rage of the storm all around, swallowing up the silence until it became the silence itself, a background noise that made shudders run down their spines. 

Then the deamons started popping out of the ground, and they weren't the small fry that clustered around roads, out there in Leide and Duscae. These were monstrous, giant things, screeching with hate: Uttus and Yojimbos and Necromancers; the kind of stuff they'd read about and prepared to fight, one at the time, for those missions that Nyx accepted straight from the Hunters HQ. The ones that they sent to him, because nothing short of the full brunt of the Kingsglaive would be enough to deal with it. 

“Blessed stars of light and life,” Sylva said, holding the trident again as she pressed her hand to her chest, before thrusting it up into the air, “deliver us from darkness blight!” 

Her magic coursed through them, conscious and willing, as opposed to the King's passive connection. It made their strikes frighteningly effective against the host of daemons bearing down on them. But even if it took fewer hits to take down each monstrosity, there were a whole lot of them, and only four of them. Crowe sent torrent after torrent of frost and lightning against them; fire could not hope to survive long in the rain, oily and soapy thick, at once. Libertus winked in and out of existence, cornering the Necromancers and doing his best to avoid getting skewered by Yojimbos. Pelna swore long and loud and kept a thirty feet wide circle around the Oracle, all on his own. 

Nyx bounced from target to target, hitting hard and fast, and didn't even look back to see if he'd made a dent or not, before moving onto the next one. 

They noticed the lightning crashing in, every now and then, weakening some of the daemons or at least stunning them long enough to sneak in a proper hit, and it only made them fight harder, because they knew what it _meant_. Even Libertus, whom Nyx knew could bitch and whine about a fight while still in the middle of said fight, was quiet and solemn and _raging_. 

When the battle was over – and it was, eventually, over – they made their way to a nearby cavern and huddled for warmth around a fire that kept going out every time they took their eyes off it. 

“I told you,” Nyx said tiredly, sitting with his back against a rock and an arm around Sylva's shoulders, cradling her for warmth, “no Oracle has ever set foot in Galahd. There's no havens here, no runes or temples or anything like that.” 

“Wait,” Crowe said, frowning, “Oracles _made_ the havens?” 

“So the story goes,” Sylva sighed, eyes half-lidded. She was tired and worn from the battle, but she did not complain about it. “That the first one of us paid with blood for them.” She frowned. “Are there truly no havens here? Anywhere?” 

“Look,” Crowe snorted, “Lady. 99% of everything in these islands could kill you before you realized it, and that was just during the day, zero daemons involved. Nobody was stupid enough to go outside a settlement at night.” 

“Never needed to, anyway,” Libertus snorted, blowing gently at the fire to keep it lit, more with magic than anything else. “Nothing worth stepping out at night and getting killed for.” 

“I'm going to assume the weather was not always this terrible, at least,” Sylva said, staring at the thick curtain of rain outside the cave; it was hard to see two feet ahead of them. “If only because I sincerely doubt anything could survive that, long term.” 

They shared a look. It was not the kind of look that agreed with her assessment. 

“Selectively,” Pelna said diplomatically, and shrugged valiantly in the face of Sylva's stare. “You cherish life all the more, Your Holiness, when you don't take it for granted.” 

“Galahdians must be the most ferverent worshipers of life in the entire blighted world, then,” Sylva said, so put out they couldn't help but laugh. 

* * *

In the morning – his gut said it was morning, even though the rain kept falling, mercilessly, and the sky remained just as black – Nyx woke up to the sound of heavy paws scratching the rock floor. Sylva woke up next, but by then Nyx had a hand on her mouth, holding her steady, while Crowe, Libertus and Pelna pressed close to them, trying to smother them into the wall. They held very, very still, and tried not to breathe. 

The coeurl limped into the cave, massive bulk impressive despite the withered edge to its body and the sickly, black ooze trailing its hind paws and up its legs. Its tail looked like it had been drained, loose skin on looser bone, and over all the entire animal looked diseased. It was still the size of a large SUV, however, and all of them – except maybe Sylva, who knew nothing of actual importance apparently – knew damn well all that the creature needed was one, swift flicker of a whisker, and it'd be over. 

The coeurl limped its way into the cave and stared them down, whiskers sparkling before it stared at Nyx straight in the eye and very purposely let itself fall on the ground. Nyx held the profoundly terrifying gaze of an apex predator, and then it clicked, omninously and terribly, in the back of his head. He shuddered out a sigh just as the whiskers stopped sparkling and fell limply to the ground, as if keeping them up was too much effort for the coeurl. 

“Fuck,” Nyx said, swallowing hard, and passed Sylva into Libertus' arms – she grunted, he squeaked – as he pushed himself off the wall, standing up and slowly approaching the beast. “No pressure at all.” 

The head was the size of his torso, and he knew - he knew - the jaws were strong enough to crunch through bone and metal and probably even concrete, if it really wanted to. The coeurl whined at him, low and vicious, and lifted its head to stare at him in the eye, whiskers limp on the sullied ground. 

"Nyx," Sylva said, warningly, as the creature struggled to sit up right, but rather than majesty all it projected was misery. 

"Can you heal it?" Nyx asked, looking at her over his shoulder. She thinned her lips and shook her head. Nyx smiled, humorlessly. "Didn't think so, no." 

He pulled out the blade slowly, but obviously. Icy blue eyes stared up at him, expectant, as he walked up to the coeurl, arms spread almost placatingly. He knew what needed to be done, and it knew it too, but he wasn't sure it wouldn't want company, on the way out. The coeurl, however, remained where it was, curled slightly on its side, and only flared its nostrils at him, when he lowered his free hand to try and touch its face. 

"Hey," Nyx said, pressing a palm to the top of its head, fingers sinking into thick, white fur, "it's okay," he whispered as he knelt, cradling the monstrous head against his chest. "It won't hurt long." He noted the hand holding the blade was trembling, and choked on a small laugh at the sight. He scratched along the stripes on its face, instead, cooing softly under his breath, as he would for Prompto, when he had a nightmare. He felt rather stupid for it, honestly, but then a loud, terrifying rumble echoed from within the beast, and Nyx realized it was purring. "Yeah. Okay." 

He brought his hand down, sharply, and forced himself to look as blood drenched the white fur and the great body shuddered and went limp against him. 

"Okay," he whispered, even though it really wasn't. He turned to look at the others, still pressed tight against the cavern wall, but didn't really met their eyes. “We should move out.” 

In silence, they did. 

* * *

They fought another horde of daemons as they tried to make their way uphill, to where a massive imperial complex loomed. It was really quite bizarre, in Nyx experience, that they had fought daemons – in daylight, though with Ramuh's wrath blanketing the skies, there was no real difference between night and day – than MTs. Surely there had to be some around. 

And then, as they recovered from the battle and resumed the trek, they heard it. A faint, taunting whistling, missing half the bars but still managing to keep its tune. 

"We need to go," Sylva said, voice gone quiet with something deeper than dread as she stared at the top of the hill. "We need to go _right now_. Run!" 

Nyx saw... a man? The vague impression of a man? Mostly just a trenchcoat and a hat, at least until the loud screeching of daemons erupted from the hill and a large, massive horde began to make their way to them, almost rolling on each other in their haste to get there. 

“Fuck it,” Nyx growled and warped straight into Sylva, who was entirely too smart to stay standing around. “Straight for the boat and don't stop!” He hollered, as he wrapped an arm around Sylva and unceremoniously warped them as far as he could throw his weapon. 

It took them an hour and a half to make it to the boat, but when they try to approach it, lightning struck pointedly at the pier. Then again and again, just enough to make it clear it was intentional. Sylva staggered to her feet, nauseous and dizzy from the constant warping – she'd lost her lunch, somewhere along the race back to the boat, she was fairly sure, but no one seemed inclined to point it out – and summoned her trident again. 

Nyx raised a hand, stopping her. 

“I told you,” he said, laughing bitterly, “no one speaks for you before the Storm, here.” He tilted his head back at the sky. “If we don't leave, we'll die.” Lightning struck again, closer, and it knocked Crowe off her feet and straight into Libertus' arms. “We don't _want_ to go,” Nyx yelled at the sky, taking a step forward and ignoring the flash of lightning turning sand into glass bare inches away from his feet. “We never wanted to leave, but we can't stay. Not like this.” 

“We'll be back!” Libertus hollered, leaving Crowe to go stand next to Nyx. The lightning flashed again, but it missed them, just barely. They didn't flinch. “We'll bring everyone back! Just. Not this year.” Libertus swallowed hard. “Not this year.” 

The sky darkened as the clouds rolled into each other, twisting and turning, reshaping into an enormous figure that glowed with lightning under his skin, beard whipping in the wind. 

“Well, shit,” Pelna said, as the mirage – they wanted so badly to think it was a mirage, but this was Galahd and that sure as fuck was Ramuh, all two hundred towering feet of him – raised a hand and conjured a staff out of sheer lightning. 

“No!” Crowe hissed at Sylva, when she looked like she was about to step up again, actually reaching out to grab her hand and keep her down. “You'll make it worse!” 

Sylva flinched, as Ramuh thew his staff down, but it did not aim for them: rather, the daemons that had caught up with them by then. It blanketed the hills with vicious, purplish light and left behind half-foot deep scorchmarks _everywhere_. Ramuh remained there only a moment longer, before a strong gust dissolved the clouds and the rain intensified on land again, even as the small corridor of still waters opened again, connecting the boat with the open sea beyond the storm. 

“Move, move, _move_ ,” Nyx hollered, as he started running to the ship, “and don't look back!” 

* * *

The boatride to Insomnia was nine hours long. 

They were the quietest hours of their lives. 

* * *

“It was bad,” Nyx said, standing by the doorway as he stared at Cor, lying on the bed. “It was really fucking bad.” 

Cor stared at him for a long, long moment and then slid off the bed to come stand in front of him. He didn't say anything, which was nice, and when he reached out to slowly work him out of his muddied, torn uniform, Nyx surrendered and allowed his brain to simply shut down. He'd done what he needed to do – audience with the King, audience with the rest of his men, audience with Clarus, audience with Sylva in public, audience with Sylva in private – and now he could finally let go and really wallow on everything that had actually happened. He probably shouldn't have gone to those meetings wearing the same clothes he'd worn for the mission, to be honest, but he thought they added weight to his words – so many, many words, he couldn't even remember half the things he'd said, so he could only hope none of them had been too offensive. 

He woke up the next morning, back against Cor's chest and an arm around his waist, holding him in place. He remembered bits and pieces of the night before, something like a shower and Cor brushing aside the hair off the back of his neck so he could press a kiss there. He was aware he'd never gone to Cor first, when coming back from deployment. He went to Prompto and hugged his son and that reminded him of every single reason why he did his job, usually. But there was something ugly and jagged inside him, sharp like glass shards shifting loosely inside his chest, and he didn't trust himself to not shred his son's hands in them, at the moment. 

“What are you going to do?” Cor asked, pulling Nyx closer up against him and giving him an excuse to curl up and make himself small. 

Nyx laughed, wet and terrible and turned around to bury his face into Cor's chest. 

“What I learned from you,” he whispered, feeling Cor's fingers digging into his hair, “survive.” 

* * *

It was... easier than he thought it would be. He had work to keep him busy, dozens of men and women asking questions and trying to determine how hopeless the endeavor really was. And it was harder, too, when Prompto would sit on his lap and try to hug him hard enough to keep him whole. Little glass shards jiggled in his chest, and Nyx hugged his son back and reminded himself that home was more than just a place. 

More than just a place. 

“I'll take years,” Nyx told the Kingsglaive, hands in the pockets of his pants, back slouched and expression wry. 

He was Commander, yes, but never to them, not the way he'd learned to be stiff and larger than life, for the sake of theatrics and the council's boredom. Here, among his men, he was kin. Older, wiser, worth following... at least he'd managed to convince them of that. He knew them, was the thing, and so in turn they knew him. They trusted him. Even the ones that Glauca had one sank his teeth into – Luche chafed, still, sometimes, but Nyx had spent years trying to fill up the holes Glauca had clawed into him, and nudging his ambition upwards rather than letting it drag him down a pit. Luche was a victory, even if Nyx would never be able to put him in the same mental box as Libertus or Pelna. Even the most bitter, the most choked up in hate and betrayal. They trusted him. 

“It's a shithole,” he said, and meant it because he'd been there, and in his mind he felt the sickly warmth of the coeurl's blood drenching his hands. “And it'll take for fucking ever to make it what it was, before. But we promised to go back, and we will, one day.” 

“One day is not tomorrow,” Libertus snapped, contrary and bitter because that was just who he was, and he loved Nyx enough to never stop telling him exactly what he thought. “One day is not a date. One day's just the shit we tell ourselves when we don't know what happens next.” 

Nyx stared at him, right in the eye, and sneered. 

“That's Lucian talk, Libertus,” he said, and arched an eyebrow challengingly when Libertus stood up with an insulted growl. “That's how Lucians talked about the war. Do you remember? When we started? One day, the war will end. They'd been pulling that shit for what... centuries? We're _Galahdian_. We joined their fucking war and we _ended_ it. We say one day, and we mean sooner than you'll know.” 

Libertus stared at him, frowning. Nyx held his gaze and tilted his chin up, borderline arrogant. He had to be proud, for all of them. He had to be proud when they were down or tired or reeling from whatever piece of bullshit someone tried to pull on them. Nyx was good at proud, it was almost second nature. 

“...yeah, okay,” Libertus grunted after a moment, “got a point, there.” 

“We'll go home,” Nyx insisted, and he hoped dearly he sounded as convincing as he needed to be, “and it'll be a long, painful slog through shit, yeah. But we're _Galahdian_ , when the hell have we ever done it the easy way?” 

* * *

“This is a terrible idea,” Nyx said, watching the uneasy crowd shift about, instinctively clustering together, away from the Crownsguard escort. 

He had not been the only one who'd been changed – scarred – by their little misadventure in Galahd. Sylva had been... Oracle-ing, about it. He wasn't sure he was impressed or pissed off, that she'd managed to find out about the Walk. Straight out of Ramuh's mouth, too, it seemed. The Walk was sacred. The Walk was _theirs_. The Walk was the cornerstone of who they were, of everything Galahd had ever been. Sylva had no right to meddle with it. 

But she was the Oracle, and she wanted to help. She refused to accept Galahd had no need of her, even putrid and overrun by daemons as it was. Sylva had seen them commune with their god, holler at the sky and make promises they intended to keep. Sylva wanted to _help_. 

So there they were, invited personally by the King, to witness the Oracle raise a prayer in their name, on the most sacred of sacred days. They couldn't do it in Insomnia, not beneath the protection of the Wall. It would insult Ramuh, to see them cower like that. So they'd chosen Leide, instead, and turned the fucking thing into a production and a public gesture. They weren't Lucian, they didn't grovel to their gods and pretended it made a damn difference. But because it was the Oracle who came up with it, the council had endorsed it. Nyx ignored the small twitch of bitterness at the certainty that if this had been his idea, it would have been shot down without a second thought. Still, he'd done his part and tried his best to sell it to his men and their families and as the sun appraoched zenith, he ran his eyes over the crowd and knew nearly all of them where there, ready to watch the Oracle attempt to sanctify a holiday she didn't understand. 

“Probably,” Sylva retorted, chin tilted up as they watched Regis address the crowd with gentle, kind words that Nyx knew would not get him the results he wanted. “But it's important for your people.” 

Nyx did not scream at her or at the King or at the smug, sneering Crownsguard soldiers all around. Nyx sought out Cor across the sea of people – more of a lake, really – and amused himself watching him watch the kids and keep them close. At least, he told himself, he had dinner at Cid's to look forward to, once the charade was over. 

Nyx liked Cid. Cid was the least Lucian Lucian he knew, besides maybe Cor. Though Cor was still stupidly Lucian about things, sometimes. Not so often, anymore, and Nyx noticed and he appreciated it, he did, but still. 

Sylva had planned a speech and a show of golden magic, maybe invite a vision like they saw before they escaped Galahd. Something symbolic and worthless, teethless, to try and commemorate the date. Sylva had not expected the sky to grow dark and the wind to pick up into a vicious howl, strong enough some of the stern-faced men posted around the perimeter stumbled and struggled to keep upright. Nyx would have laughed at the look of horror on her face, he would, except he knew what it meant, when the pillar of lightning fell from the sky, far in the distance, and the curtain of pelting rain unfolded outwards from it, rushing at them with a roar. 

“Tell them to go back inside the Wall,” Nyx said flatly, and promised himself his hands were not shaking, because the smell of fresh, clean rain kicked him in the gut and left him breathless. Sylva stared at him, and he bared his teeth at her. “You know what'll happen to them, if they don't fall back.” 

The crowd was already dispersing, pushing past their dumbstruck escort and vanishing into the rain. Nyx had no hope to stop them... and no real desire to. They knew what it meant. He ached to follow the mass of bodies walking bravely into the storm, soul yearning to feel the rain on his skin once more, but he was Commander now. 

“Is it safe?” The King asked him, as Sylva talked to Monica and urged the Crownsguard to fall back and let the Galahdians be, as they disappeared behind the curtain of water. 

“Not for you, it isn't,” Nyx told him frankly, and shrugged at the look he got for his efforts. “I suggest you ask Her Holiness to explain, Your Majesty. I'm sure she can do a much better job than me. But please make sure you're back behind the safety of the Wall, before you do so.” 

Regis gave him an odd look. Nyx shrugged. He was angry and resigned and furious and delirious with joy. It was very exhausting and he wanted to run into the storm and stop thinking for a while. The Crownsguard mobilized a lot quicker, once they realized Cor was there. Nyx wasn't entirely sure how they'd missed the surly flagpost in the first place, but then his opinion of the Crownsguard in general was terribly biased and his current mood wasn't making it any kinder. 

“Stay,” Regis told Cor, shaking his head. He favored Nyx with a wry smile. “I expect there won't be a report for me about what happens next, will there?” 

Nyx shrugged expansively. 

“No, Your Majesty.” 

“Then yes, stay,” Regis ordered Cor again, nodding to himself. “And don't die.” 

He turned away, towards the car where Sylva was waiting for him. They stood there for a moment, watching the official retinue quickly and efficiently pack up and vanish towards the bridge back to Insomnia and away from the curtain of rain. 

“You want to go into the fucking storm, don't you,” Cor deadpanned, not even bothering to make it into an actual question. 

Nyx bursted out laughing. 

“It's not that easy,” he said, and realized his family was staring expectantly at him. There was no one else left. Lucians had gone back to hide under their Wall, Galahdians had gone to seek their blessings into the storm. And then there was them. Nyx swallowed hard. “If you walk into the storm, you can't be afraid of the storm. You can't flinch from it. You have to trust it.” 

“Storms don't hurt if you're not scared,” Prompto said, squinting up at him curiously, because that was the one truth Nyx had managed to teach him, even though he'd never thought the day would come for him to actually _use_ it. 

“Bit of lightning never killed anyone,” Aranea snorted, hands on her hips, and Nyx nearly laughed again, at the ironic word choice. 

“What happens inside the storm?” Cor asked, cutting straight to the heart of it. 

Nyx smiled. 

“I can't tell you that.” 

There was a moment of silence, as they thought about that, while Nyx used every speck of self-control to keep himself from sprinting into the curtain of water. 

“If you're going, I'm going,” Prompto anounced, chin tilted up and jaw set as best as his soft features would allow. 

“Well, I'm sure as hell not just staying here waiting,” Aranea snorted, “'sides, I'm not afraid of anything.” 

Cor was still staring at him, thoughtful pull at his brow. 

“This is going to be, in retrospect, one of the stupidest things I've ever done, isn't it?” 

Nyx took a deep breath, laughed, and then gathered all three into his arms. 

“Let's go for a Walk.” 

* * *

The first lightning strike was the hardest one, always. 

“Trust the storm,” Nyx said, over and over again, but he meant the words for Cor. 

Aranea was too competitive to not get lost into the challenge of it and her fears always came to her much, much later, once she was safe and had no reason to fear in the first place. Prompto had learned that lesson early on, and he got lost in the beauty of the storm too much to really consider there could be a reason to be afraid. It was Cor who was gambling, and Nyx knew he knew, so he held his stare and let him watch as the lightning fell on him and curved away at the very last second, hitting the ground at his side, instead. 

“How did you do that?” Aranea asked, blinking at him and the fact he was perfectly unsinged. 

“I didn't,” Nyx said, and smiled, and if he was crying it didn't matter, because the rain was too dense for it to show, “I trusted the storm would.” 

“The storm likes you a lot, huh,” Aranea pointed out, blinking away rain and squinting at him. 

“It likes you too, Nea,” Nyx laughed, starting to walk once more, “since you're here.” 

“I am pretty fucking likable, yes,” she concluded, huffing. “Where are we going anyway?” 

“There's a runestone, somewhere in here. We're supposed to find it.” 

Cor frowned. 

“How do you know you've found it?” 

Nyx smiled at him, and lightning zigzaged inches above their heads. 

“Trust me, you'll know.” 

They moved slowly, mostly because Prompto kept stopping every few steps to stare up at the sky in wonder, and Nyx didn't care one whit because every time he did he felt something in his chest swell to bursting point. Eventually Aranea lost her patience – what little she had anyway – and scooped him up into her arms and rested his weight against her hip. Prompto laughed in delight, and she glared at Nyx, as if daring him to comment on it. Nyx smiled at her, and felt his face was going to be stuck like that, possibly forever. 

They caught up with the crowd about two hours later, at the foot of Longwythe peak. 

“Well that's gonna suck,” Nyx muttered as he saw the glimmer of the runestone stuck high above. He walked over to where Libertus and the others were trying to figure out the best way to climb the peak. “Anyone made it up yet?” 

Libertus took a moment to reply, staring wide eyed at Cor. Cor, because he was Cor, stared right back at him. 

“Not yet,” Libertus said after a moment, snapping his attention back to Nyx. “No one wants to warp up, 'cause, you know...” 

“Not much of a walk, then,” Nyx finished for him, nodding slowly. “Man, I bet you're starting to feel the canyon last time wasn't so bad, huh?” Libertus snorted irreverently. “Can we even fit everyone up there?” 

“It's not the top-top of it,” Pelna piped up, “and there's not many of us.” That caused a slight silence to spread, like a mournful pause to acknowledge that fact. Pelna cleared his throat. “So yes, we can definitely get everyone up there. It's just gonna take a while.” 

“Better get on with it then,” Nyx snorted, “didn't think you'd actually need me to tell you that, but here I am, telling you that.” 

“We didn't know if the Lucians were gonna let you come,” Luche said, snide and bratty and impossible like always. 

He too was staring at Cor, eyes narrowed, but the lightning kept falling and Cor kept not flinching. It was a little disconcerting for them, Nyx knew. Personally he found it blisteringly, stupidly hot, but they weren't alone and it wasn't the time to think about that. Later, though. Later, he'd take the time to explain exactly what kind of stupid, wondrous thing Cor had just done for him, and how much he actually cared that he had. 

“Had to kick them out,” Nyx snorted, one eyebrow arched, “before they started trying to sing or something.” 

Nyx didn't know what to do with the realization that they really _had_ been waiting for him, before they mobilized to form a human chain towards the top. The Kingsglaive had no trouble at all, climbing the jagged rocks to reach the runestone, but there were children and elders and civilians all around, who needed help. There was nothing that said you couldn't help each other, during the Walk, but it was also a personal trial. Had been, back home. Here, though, it felt different. The rain tasted the same, but it was _different_. They knew, almost instinctively, that they couldn't leave anyone behind. So they didn't. 

It took another two hours, to finish carrying everyone who couldn't climb, and Nyx knew he should be tired, they should all be tired, but the storm kept falling and the lightning kept flashing above their heads, and it didn't matter if he was crying, because everyone else was, too. He needed a moment, watching his son walk up to the runestone and press both hands up to it, giggling because he wasn't scared, he was having _fun_. His entire being tingled, watching Aranea and Cor take their turn – well, okay, Cor hesitated a moment there, and Libertus shoved him forward, because Libertus was a fearless asshole and Nyx loved him for it, he really did. 

There were maybe nine hundred people out there, clustered around the runestone, and somewhere under his lungs, Nyx felt the realization crystalize, that they really were all that was left, from Galahd. He felt himself sway in place, trying to breathe and finding it a near impossible chore all of a sudden. There should be more of them, but there wasn't. Ten years was a long time. A lot of the thousands that Nyx remembered fleeing with had died, since then – the eldery and the young had been sent away, the rest had stayed, desperate to fight. Nyx would have stayed, too, if Selena hadn't slipped through his fingers and taken most of his soul with her. He'd been too numb to protest when Libertus shoved him in a boat with Crowe, to scream at him that it was cowardly to run. Some of the ships had never made it to Insomnia, and no one had ever bothered to wonder why, because it had been only Galahdians in the hold. And of those that did come through, the old died and the young were taken, to be raised as something they were not. Nyx stared at the sustained beams of lightning that fell around the runestone, tracing a pattern that was left scortched on the ground around it, once the last one of them touched it. He wondered if out there in Insomnia, there were children hearing the soft humming in their bones, if beneath the crust of nonsense they were taught, if they still remembered the rain. 

Prompto's eyes were wide with awe as the runestone slid off the ground, pulsing with light, like a heartbeat. Nyx heard Cor's breathing hitch and Aranea slide instinctively closer to him, and he knew they were finally hearing the humming of power inside the stone, that the rest of them had been following since the beginning. When the runestone exploded into light, and then rained on them, tiny clusters of beads hidden inside, one for each pair of hands waiting for it, the crying became very overt. 

“He forgave us,” muttered an old woman, clutching the beads to her forehead and rocking back and forth, “he _forgave_ us.” 

The storm ended as abruptly as it began, the sky clearing up and the afternoon sun catching the last of it to display a massive rainbow in the distance. The wide circle broke up into smaller clusters of families, as they showed each other what they'd been given. 

“These are mine?” Prompto asked him, holding up the three, shiny beads in his hands for him to see. “Like yours, but _mine_?” 

“All yours,” Nyx said, and showed him the two he'd been given, this time around. In his hair, another three hung heavy and purposely from the braids, like a renewed commitment he'd tried his best to not forget about. 

“Mine are red,” Aranea said, staring at her hand with a frown. 

“You _like_ red,” Nyx pointed out, rubbing his free hand against his nose to hide a sniffle. 

“But what does it _mean_?” She insted, rolling the reddish purple beads between her fingers, fascinated by the texture against her skin. 

“It means you're Galahdian, now,” Nyx said, arching an eyebrow at her, “if you want to be.” 

“But I've never even been to Galahd,” Aranea replied, frowning. 

“You have,” Nyx told her, licking his lips. “We were all there, just now.” 

“Galahd is the Storm,” Cor murmured, one eyebrow arched, holding a single dark blue bead between thumb and index finger, “never thought you meant that _literally_.” 

Nyx stared at him, and felt an overwhelming urge to just... fall into him and never surface again. He swallowed hard, because he was Commander still and they weren't done. They still needed him. 

“You know what isn't though? Night,” Nyx said, grinning as he tilted his head back. “So let's get everyone home.” 

* * *

Later, much later, after Cor laid him on their bed, and he'd pulled him apart and then put him together again, one piece at the time, Nyx stared at their entwined hands and felt that, despite it all, he was right where he was supposed to be. 

“You could have died,” he whispered, “in there.” 

“Figured as much,” Cor whispered back, words pressed into the back of his neck. He snorted. “Never been very good at dying, though. In case you hadn't heard.” 

“You didn't have to risk it, though,” Nyx muttered and then moaned in protest when Cor pulled at him until Nyx was lying on his back, and he was looming above him. 

“Yes,” Cor said, slow and purposeful, staring him down in a way that made Nyx's skin crawl with goosebumps, “I did.” 

Nyx pulled him down and kissed him, slow and languid, fingers digging playfully into his hair. 

“I love you, too.” 

* * *


	12. year ix

* * *

_year ix_

* * *

Prompto disliked the walk to the Amicitia estate. 

He knew Jared was there, waiting behind the double doors with sweets and treats, always happy to see him, it seemed. He was fond of running around the gardens, larger and nicer than the park two streets down from home, where he usually played with his friends. The garden had many places to hide and Prompto knew nearly all of them. Gladio would try and try to find him before giving up and sitting on the benches beneath the tall stalks of his namesake flowers and reluctantly admit defeat. He had extremely fond memories of the lavish estate, all of them so far, in fact; he just couldn't say the same, of the walk there. 

The ride in the subway was uncomfortable and complicated, and the people stared, sometimes. No one looked twice, around home, about kids coming and going in the subway, but closer to Gladio's neighborhood, the wagons filled up with adults with scowling faces that kept looking down their noses at him. He'd asked his dad why, at some point, and he'd only said it was because people in Gladio's neighborhood didn't use the subway. Probably because the subway didn't reach that far. There were twenty four blocks to walk, to reach the estate from the subway station, and they weren't even the normal, nice blocks that Prompto walked on his way to the park or the corner store. They were unfairly long and stupidly empty, with nothing to really distract Prompto from the tedium of the walk. He felt small and vulnerable, walking around the wide, unsued sidewalks, and the squinty, judging looks he got from any adult he did manage to encounter were not doing him any favors. 

Once, he'd put down his backpack and sat on a cube-like bench beneath the shadow of a tree, to try and catch his breath, but a man in a dark blue uniform had walked out of the house next to the bench and yelled at him something he hadn't understood but which had instantly sent him fleeing. 

He could have asked his dad to drop him off, of course, or Cor. They had offered, too. But Prompto heard Micah's taunting in the back of his head – are you a baby that needs to be carried everywhere? – and he'd told them he'd be fine on his own. He was a big boy, he'd learned how to use the subway and he went to school every morning with Harit and Scilpio, but also with Micah and Dana and Thei. Their braids were longer than Prompto's, but they all meant the same thing: safety. Prompto had been friend with Harit and Scilpio forever, but he'd never been invited to play with their other friends, before the braids and the beads and that one storm that had made his dad cry. They weren't all as nice as Harit or as funny as Scilpio, their jokes chafed and bit in places, and sometimes they were very mean for no other reason than they could. But when the older kids tried to pick on Prompto, they would stand up for him: Micah would yell, Dana would throw pebbles and Thei ran to find someone, usually Miss Savis, to put a stop to things. And that was nice. Weird, but nice. 

But none of them went with Prompto, to visit Gladio, and so the subway ride was very lonely and a little scary sometimes. And there was no one to laugh and talk with, to make the long, long blocks seem shorter – though Prompto supposed that was good, Micah would have yelled back, at the man in the blue uniform, and Prompto didn't think that would have ended well. 

It was alright, though, in the end. 

Gladio gave the best hugs out of all his friends, and he never failed to nearly tackle Prompto to the ground whenever he saw him. Later, after they ate that fluffy, fancy icecream Jared brought out whenever Prompto visited, they sat on the floor of Gladio's room, looking through the stack of comics Prompto had brought. 

“Man, I hate math,” Gladio muttered mournfully, lying on his belly on the plush carpet, staring at a two page spread with a frown. “How are you so good at math?” 

“My math's easier than yours,” Prompto reassured him, snorting. “Yours has letters and squiggles in it.” 

“Yeah, but I'm bad at easy math too,” Gladio sighed, passing a page to find out if Captain Firestorm was going to get caught or not. “They just move around, you know, the numbers? But my dad says I'm just being lazy and I should work harder.” 

Prompto reached a hand and patted his shoulder sympathetically. Then blinked. 

“I know,” he said, smiling brightly, “you should ask Ignis about it!” When Gladio gave him a skeptical look, Prompto beamed at him. “Ignis knows _everything_ , Gladio. He's really good at explaining, too!” 

“Maybe,” Gladio replied slowly, then wrinkled his nose. “He doesn't like me, though. He's all... stuck-up and squinty and... _sneery_.” 

Prompto snickered. 

“No, dude, that's just his face, I promise,” he said, laughing when Gladio gave him a dubious look. “Seriously, his face's just stuck that way. I thought he didn't like me for the longest time, because he was always telling me I was slouching and glaring at me 'cause I couldn't remember which order to use what fork,” he went on, as Gladio nodded gloomily, having been subjected to similar treatement at the hands of the quiet boy with the piercing green eyes, “but then I finally memorized the whole spoon thing, he sneaked me into the kitchens and gave me some of the best cake ever, to celebrate.” He nodded sagely, even as Gladio continued to squint. “Like, the best cake, Gladio, and all the while his face still looked the same. That's how I figured it was just what it looked like, right? 'cause someone gives you _the best cake_ , they can't really be a jerk.” 

“I guess...” Gladio muttered, not quite convinced. 

“C'mon, you should try at least!” Prompto smiled encouragingly, “he's really funny when he's not lecturing.” 

“He can stop lecturing?” Gladio asked, one eyebrow arched in disbelief. Prompto arched an eyebrow back, almost taunting. Gladio sighed. “Fine, fine, I'll ask.” 

Prompto beamed. 

* * *

“You told Gladiolus to come to me for tutoring,” Ignis said, a couple weeks later, during their weekly two hour session studying court etiquette. “Why?” 

Prompto turned to look at him and nearly dropped the books on his head, yelping as he tried to catch them. Ignis kept giving him that serious, pointed stare of his, even as he sheepishly piled the books on his head again. 

“Well, I figured, uh, if anyone could help, it was you,” Prompto explained and tried to keep his balance while following the decidedly meanspirted pattern Ignis had taped on the floor. “You're like... good at everything, dude.” 

“Don't say dude,” Ignis muttered on reflex, walking around Prompto and poking him in places to try and fix his posture. “I thought he didn't like me,” he added after a moment, in a quieter, softer voice. 

Prompto lived for anything Ignis said in that tone, because it was usually way nicer than everything else he said. He turned his head to reply and topppled the books off again. After setting them in place again, he sighed. 

“Course he does,” he lied, “he's just... shy, sometimes.” 

Lying was not, in general, something Prompto did very often. It was bad, after all, and the truth had a habit of always coming up. But then there were lies that weren't really lies so much as... truths not really true just yet, like they had time traveled back from the future to the now. They would be true, just not yet. Those weren't lies, obviously, just... not really truths yet. 

“Gladiolus Amicitia,” Ignis deadpanned – well, he tried to, though he had nothing on Prompto's parents, whose deadpan was the measure of all deadpans in his world – staring down at him over the rim of his glasses. “Shy.” 

Prompto shrugged. 

“We're all shy, sometimes,” he replied, and then smiled a little, “even you, right?” 

“No,” Ignis said, but his cheeks were pink and his eyes wouldn't meet Prompto's. “You're being ridiculous.” 

When, a few weeks later, Gladio reported that _Iggy was a bloody goddamn genius that made math his bitch_ , Prompto beamed with the satisfaction of a job well-done. 

* * *

There was always something nice and comforting, about sitting on the steps with Cor, early in the morning. The habit was so ingrained that Prompto didn't really need the alarm on his phone to wake up for it – but he still put it in place, every night, just in case. One day, not yet, but one day, he would be allowed to share his coffee, too, but in the meantime he was okay with hot chocolate, because Cor always served it for him in a matching mug to his. When he was younger, Prompto would sprawl on Cor's lap, but he wasn't a little baby anymore, so he didn't. Well, not always. Cor's lap remained the safest place in the world, by Prompto's best estimations, but it was like the super secret last minute power-ups of the heroes he liked to watch on TV while doing his homework. You couldn't just... use that, straight up. You had to try other stuff first. So Prompto saved his uses of Cor's lap for the truly important things, like hiding from Aranea when a prank backfired, or when the nightmares lingered even with the lights on. 

“I wish Noct would come with us,” Prompto said that morning, huddling close to Cor's side – that wasn't the same as being a baby, obviously – and cradling his mug with his hands. “He says the Vesperpool has the best fishing spots.” 

“Maybe,” Cor rumbled quietly, sipping his own mug, “but Noctis isn't allowed to leave Insomnia.” 

“That sucks,” Prompto replied, frowning. “Why?” 

“Because he's only safe, under the Wall,” Cor explained, nodding at the translucent glimmer high in the sky. “And the Wall only covers Insomnia.” 

“Oh,” Prompto sighed. “Are we safe outside the Wall?” 

Cor was quiet for a moment, pondering an answer. Prompto liked that best about Cor, because he always told the truth even if he had to think about it. Words, Cor had taught Prompto, were important. You could never take them back, once you said them, so you had to make very sure you meant them, before you opened your mouth. 

“You'll be,” Cor said eventually, “your dad and I will be there, to make sure of it.” 

“...I still wish he could come,” Prompto said after a long silence and four sips, “it's unfair.” 

Cor hummed quietly. 

“You could... bring him something,” he said after a moment, “to show him you were thinking of him.” 

“Like a souvenir?” Prompto asked, blinking. 

Cor shrugged. 

“Something like that.” 

Prompto frowned thoughtfully. He could do that, probably. It was just a matter of finding the right thing, anyway. It shouldn't be too hard... right? He knew what Noctis liked. And everyone liked gifts, too. He smiled up at Cor. 

“I can do that,” he said, and grinned when a hand fell on his hair, not quite ruffling it, “thank you.” 

* * *

Prompto fiddled with the puzzle cube Cid had given him for his birthday – to keep those fingers nimble, he'd written on the note that came with it, though Prompto had needed his dad to explain what nimble meant – while Aranea and his dad argued about music and boring Kingsglaive stuff. He watched the landscape pass them by, the yellowed, sandy plains of Leide slowly giving into greenery as they entered Duscae. They stopped for the night in the caravans next to the gas station – Alstor, and Prompto placed a little sticker on the map he'd brought along, to mark the stop and marvel at how far away Meldacio still was – and ate dinner at the Crow's Nest. Prompto fell asleep sandwiched between his dad and Aranea, and thought that would be his favorite part of the trip, right there. 

The next morning, as Cor refilled the tank and argued with Aranea over how very much she was not going to drive, Prompto followed Nyx into the general store to buy snacks to carry them over until the next stop. As he browsed through the rows of plastic bags with colorful designs and funny names, he caught sight of a stand of disposable cameras at the end of the aisle. The sign proclaimed they were perfect to capture the beauty of the Disc and indispensable for any tourist wanting to immortalize their visit. Prompto frowned as he caught the inside of his lower lip between his teeth and worried it thoughtfully. His dad and Cor used their phones to take pictures, so Prompto was pretty sure the family didn't even own a camera in the first place. But his own phone was tiny and cheap and not really good to take pictures with, mostly because he kept losing it and after the third replacement his dad had told him he'd have to keep the one he had for an entire year before he was allowed to get a nicer one. He'd called it an exercise in personal accountability and then he'd kicked Cor under the table when he'd made a comment about it being just a phone. Prompto was seven months in, and desperately committed to completing his task, because he was tired of being sneered at for it, at school. 

“Dad?” Prompto said, making his way to where Nyx was chatting with the cashier, “can I get one?” 

Nyx blinked down at the small, plastic camera in Prompto's hands. Prompto stared up at him with all the hopeful eagerness he could muster. 

“Sure,” Nyx said, grinning. “Gonna immortalize the trip?” 

“Gonna try,” Prompto announced, grinning back. 

* * *

Prompto had gone through sixteen cameras, by the time they'd made it to Lestallum. 

He left them at the photo shop to develop while they ate and refueled, and later, as Nyx and Aranea walked around the market, Cor had accompanied him to pick up the results. Most of the shots were a bit blurry or weird, particularly the first few batches while he got his bearings with the timing and the shutter. But there were a few good shots in there, as well, of his parents and his sister talking or laughing or making faces at each other. He went through the pictures wide-eyed and giddy, and smiled up at Cor every time he found one he liked. 

Cor murmured in agreement every now and then, and then swiped a picture Prompto took, of him and Nyx laughing over dinner. 

“I think I'm keeping this one,” he said, arching an eyebrow at Prompto. 

Prompto beamed with pride. 

* * *

Meldacio was not a town, exactly, or at least it wasn't like any town Prompto had ever seen. The highway up to the Vesperpool turned and went through a tunnel-like rock formation naturally carved into the mountain, much wider than the road itself. At each side, houses and tents and caravans sprawled out, busy with hunters milling about as they went about their business. There were sixteen different weaponshops and a huge radio relay station. Prompto snapped pictures here and there, following cautiously after Aranea and his parents as they made their way across the settlement. He stared in amazement at the display of trophies near one of the houses, grizzly and bloodied bits and pieces of various creatures he couldn't even recognize, while a young man wrote notes on a clipboard as he inspected each of them. An old lady stopped to talk with them, and told him he'd grown nicely, even if Prompto couldn't quite recall ever meeting her before. She left as swiftly as she'd come, however, so they continued their walk. They reached a larger, distinctly separate encampent near the furthest wall of the tunnel. 

Then someone yelled as they approached, and Prompto instinctively hid behind Nyx as a large group of hunters came out of the tents and formed a wall of people waiting to receive them. He noted Aranea's hands were shaking, as they came to a stop maybe ten feet away from the group. For a moment no one moved, but then Cor placed a hand in the center of Aranea's back and shoved her lightly forward. It seemed to be all the impulse she really needed, because she was running forward, throwing herself into the waiting arms. Prompto didn't think he'd ever seen his sister cry before, and despite the rarity of the occasion, decided not to take pictures of it. It seemed cruel to him, for some reason. 

Later, after Aranea had been passed around from hug to hug around the entire group, they were invited to have lunch with them. Aranea was laughing by then, eyes bright as she waved her hands and talked excitedly with everyone at once, and Prompto felt it was okay to take pictures. 

“So I hear you've been taking care of the missus,” one of the leaders of the hunters, Wedge, said, as he came to sit down next to Prompto around one of the fires. “Haven't you, lad?” 

Prompto shrunk a little and shrugged, looking at the ground. 

“Mostly the other way around,” he muttered, sucking at his bottom lip. 

Wedge laughed and reached a hand to ruffle his hair. 

“Mostly is not always, my friend,” he said, grinning an easy, open grin that Prompto took a few moments ot tentatively return. “You keep an eye on her, alright?” 

“Alright,” Prompto replied quietly, nodding earnestly. 

“Now your old man,” Wedge went on, not really clarifying which, “he tells me you like fiddling with tech.” 

Nyx, then, probably. Prompto felt himself blush and licked his lips. 

“...a little,” he mumbled, looking sideways, “I like figuring out how things work.” 

“Good!” Wedge said, grinning down at him and ruffling his hair with one, big hand that felt a little too rough for Prompto's tastes. “'cause we've got something here that I don't think you'll ever find in your pretty, walled up city. C'mon,” he added, motioning for Prompto to follow. 

Prompto looked up at him, and bit the inside of his lip. He was... alright, he supposed. Bit too rough, bit too loud, and his accent was weird. But his sister liked him, and that automatically meant Prompto liked him too, at least a little. He turned to look over to where his parents were, sitting by one of the fires, drinking and talking with some of the other hunters. 

“Gotta ask,” Prompto muttered, looking at his shoes. “If I can.” 

Wedge smiled and didn't get mad. So maybe he really was alright. 

“Go right ahead, lad,” he said, putting his hands on his hips, “I'll be right here.” 

Prompto scurried over to his parents without looking back. His expression was a lot brighter when he came back, permission granted without a fuss. Wedge grinned and offered a hand, leading him through a narrow passageway in the rockwall towards a small meadow tucked away between the jagged peaks, where about ten imperial dropships where neatly stashed away. 

“Wanna peek under the hood?” Wedge asked, grinning as Prompto's eyes widened in delight. 

* * *

The next morning, they headed out into the Vesperpool. 

“Not gonna help?” Aranea asked with a frown, as their parents hung back with Prompto near the road. 

Nyx grinned at her. 

“It's your show, Nea,” he said, sticking his hands into the pockets of his pants. “Just don't set anyone on fire.” 

Aranea stuck out her tongue. 

“It was just _once_ , gods,” she snorted, rolling her eyes dramatically. “And anyway, Axis needed the haircut.” 

Cor snorted loudly at that, but when Aranea stared at him, he only nodded. 

“Fine,” she said, shaking her head, “be lazy like that.” 

She summoned her lance to her hand and walked briskly down the hill towards the marshy edge of the lake, where a group of about twenty hunters were waiting for her. Prompto sat with his parents on a large rock and set out to take as many pictures of the hunt as he could. The Sahagins were enormous and vicious, but they could hear laughter and jeering from the group weaving around them, slowly taking the monstrous creatures down. It was a bit like watching a movie, in Prompto's opinion, only louder and more disjointed. Aranea flung herself up in the air every now and then, landing with a crashing boom and leaving dead monsters all around her as she did. She looked happy, Prompto noted, far happier than he'd ever seen her. 

“Could _I_ learn to fight like that?” Prompto asked, after he ran out of reel, leaning his chin on his knees. 

Above his head, his parents shared a look. 

“...if you really wanted to,” Nyx said slowly, carefully. “But you don't have to.” 

Prompto thought about that for a moment, frowning. He didn't really want to fight, or learn how, to be honest; he'd just noticed, all of a sudden, that he was the only non-fighter in his entire family. His dad and his sister were part of the Kingsglaive, his mother had been a member of the Crownsguard, and pretty much everyone in Lucis had heard about how strong and powerful Cor was. He sucked on his bottom lip, thinking. He wasn't a very aggressive person – Micah chidded him for it, yelling at him for not standing up for himself more – and he didn't want to hurt anyone or anything. So no, he didn't really want to be a fighter, but at the same time, it was something his family shared that he didn't, and the thought sat shapeless and weird in his gut. 

“Why did you never teach me how to fight?” Prompto asked instead. 

There was a long silence. 

“You didn't need to learn,” Nyx said quietly, watching him with a small frown. 

“But you knew how to fight, when you were my age,” Prompto guessed, looking back and forth between them. 

Cor licked his lips. 

“Yes,” he replied, and shrugged, “but we never had a choice about that.” He paused significantly, catching Prompto's eye with his own. “You do.” 

Prompto hummed in the back of his throat. 

“Would you be mad, if I wanted to learn?” He asked, carefully not meeting their eyes. 

“No,” Nyx said firmly, “but... I'd want you to be sure that's what you want. Like Cor said, you've got a choice, Prom. Just because we didn't, it doesn't mean you have to follow along.” 

“We can continue this later,” Cor said abruptly, as he stood up, eyes narrowed at the edge of the lake. “She's here.” 

“Right,” Nyx replied, sighing, and then leaned in to kiss Prompto's forehead. “Stay here, alright? It'll be over soon.” 

Prompto blinked as he sat back, watching them move into the hunt just as a giant snake erupted from the lake, hissing loudly. Prompto whimpered, despite it all. 

“Aranea,” Cor said sharply, walking, not running, to the water's edge. “Order your men back and go keep an eye on your brother.” 

“We're not-” She stopped, as Nyx bounced around the last Sahagin stragglers, dispatching them with frightening ease. “Oi, what the hell happened with this being my show?” She demanded, even as the Midgardsormr slithered closer. 

Most of the hunters took Cor's orders to heart and rushed away from the shore, coming to crowd near Prompto. 

“You were hired to hunt these,” Nyx explained with a little grin, motioning to the dead colony, “ _we_ were hired to hunt _that_ ,” he added, pointing a thumb in the direction of the monster roaring and spitting venom wildly around. 

Aranea made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat and stomped away, throwing her hands up in the air. 

“You're impossible!” 

It very quickly became apparent that, while Aranea and the hunters were strong, powerful fighters, Nyx and Cor were in a completely different level from them. Prompto stared in awe as the hunters cheered them on, watching his parents fall into step together very easily, wearing down the giant snake steadily. He reached out to hold onto Aranea, unsure of how to feel about the whole thing, more so because his parents seemed to be having _fun_. Aranea stared down at him for a moment, thoughtful, and then let a hand drop onto his shoulder, without saying a word. 

“Every. Fucking. Time.” Nyx groused darkly as they made their way to meet with the rest of them, after the Midgardsormr died, head cut off cleanly by Cor's sword. 

They were both covered in blood and guts, but didn't seem worse for wear. Prompto felt his stomach roll, nonetheless, and swallowed hard to keep it down. 

“Still brings out your eyes,” Cor muttered back, smirking sharply at him and neatly sidestepped a swipe of Nyx's daggers for his trouble. 

Prompto stayed with Aranea and the others when they returned to Meldacio, while his parents went off to clean up for dinner. They were gone a very long time. 

“I think I'm gonna stick to photos,” he told them solemnly, when they finally came over to sit with him, showered and relaxed and no longer stinking of death. “Less mess that way.” 

* * *

Aranea spent most of her actual birthday with Biggs and Wedge, while Prompto and his parents went off to explore the Vesperpool on their own. 

Prompto bought a bunch of lures from the tiny store near the largest fishing spot for Noctis. He didn't know much about fishing, despite his friend's best attempts to educate him on the subject, so he just went with the ones that looked pretty. He also bought a few trinkets for his friends, to commemorate the trip: he bought a book on myths and stories about the region for Gladio, a guidebook on local wild life for Harit, a bag of sugar-coated orange peels for Scilpio, a set of postcards with landscapes of Cleigne for Ignis, and a bag of Sahagin teeth dyed in various colors, for Micah, Dana and Thei, because he didn't know them very well just yet, but he thought it would be the kind of thing they'd find cool. His dad had nodded in approval when he'd explained his choices. 

Aranea was quiet at dinner, even while everyone seemed to be intent on celebrating loudly. Prompto spent most of the evening sitting next to her, cuddling up her side, and marveled at the fact he was allowed to. She even sneaked him a sip of her beer when no one was looking, but it was bubbly and bitter and he made a face that finally coaxed a laugh out of her. 

The next morning, before they set out on the way back home, Aranea stood by the car and frowned at it for a very long time, before she finally got in. 

“You okay back there?” Nyx asked, as Cor slowly drove them out of the tunnel and back into the highway. 

It was very early, the sun barely visible in the distance, and the rumbling of the car made Prompto drowsy. 

“Yeah,” Aranea said, shuffing to find her place in her seat. “Yeah, I'm good.” She bit her lip, scowling. “Thanks... you know, for...” She shrugged. “Thanks.” 

“Two years is not a long time,” Cor said, looking at her from the rear-view mirror. “Even if it feels that way, sometimes.” 

Aranea licked her lips and nodded. 

“Yeah.” 

Prompto yawned widely and laid down across the seat, head resting on Aranea's thigh. 

“It was fun,” he said, smiling when she dropped a hand on his head, fingering his hair. 

“I guess it was,” she sighed, looking out the window as they picked up speed. “Two years, huh.” 

Prompto fell asleep before he could ask what that was supposed to mean. 

* * *


	13. year x

* * *

_year x_

* * *

Nyx didn't register the pain until he walked out of the cloud of debris and dust, and Pelna gave him a look horrified enough to snap through the twelve-inch crust of adrenaline around his mind. He kind of wish he hadn't, really, when the shock of it nearly toppled him to his knees. 

“Cor is going to kill me,” Pelna muttered mournfully, reaching out to steady him in his hands and then abruptly pulling back when Nyx gave a full-body wince at the slightest touch. “Shit, Ulric, I have two sons and a wife, and _Cor is going to fucking murder me for this_.” 

“To be fair,” Nyx babbled, and knew he was babbling, but it was better than making little incohering noises as he swayed on his feet, “he's probably going to murder me first. I'll fight back, though, Pel, don't worry, might leave him too tired to come after you.” 

“That's not funny,” Pelna whisper-screamed at him, still looking completely horrified, “it's also very unlikely.” 

“Yeah?” Nyx began, and then passed out before he could finish the sentence. 

He woke up on the way home, lying on the floor of the van, surrounded by dirty boots trying their best not to kick him. Nyx thought it was rather rude of them, and started to tell them so, but then the van skid off the smooth asphalt and into a rough patch of dirt, and pain bloomed all ovet his senses, so he passed out again. 

He woke up again to Crowe screaming at someone and tried to sit up to tell her to stop only that jostled every bit of him that hurt, which was approximately every bit of him, and he passed out again. 

He woke up a third time, in the middle of surgery. It wasn't fun. 

The fourth time he woke up in a nice, clean hospital room, with an IV drip up the arm that wasn't wrapped up in a cast with a frankly concerning number of metal bits poking out of it. The pain didn't kick in after a moment, even if he kept bracing for it. Then he registered the almost cloudy numbness on his skin whenever the hospital gown or the covers rubbed on it. Drugs, Nyx supposed, and felt rather thankful for them. 

“Please tell me you didn't murder Pelna,” he said, once his eyes shifted around enough to find Cor, sitting by the bedside. “Because I like Pelna.” Cor stared at him for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then he stood up and very carefully placed his book on the armchair's seat, before he began to walk thunderously slow towards Nyx. “I really, really like Pelna,” Nyx insisted, eyes blown wide as Cor reached to hold his face in his hands and tilted it up sligtly. “Like a lot.” 

“I did not muder Pelna,” Cor announced quietly, and then leaned in to kiss him in a really unfair way, because Nyx was drugged and numb and he couldn't really enjoy it. “You, on the other hand,” Cor muttered, forehead pressed against his, “you, I haven't decided not to murder yet.” 

“You can't murder me,” Nyx replied, grinning a goofy grin fueled by the soothing familiarity of Cor's scent and the fact he was very much high as a kite on painkillers. “You love me.” 

Cor kissed him again, softer this time, slower, and it made Nyx want to sink into the bed and fall asleep forever. 

“I do,” Cor whispered as the kiss wound down eventually, though Nyx no longer had context to understand what he meant, by then. 

He was smiling, when he fell asleep. 

* * *

Nyx watched Cor slowly work through the pile of paperwork, absently signing every piece with a small, annoyed frown to his lips. It couldn't be very comfortable, to be honest, balancing the signed and unsigned piles on his lap, when both of them were stacks about a foot tall each. But when Nyx had suggested he should stop trying to kill his spine and just go do his paperwork back home or in the Citadel, Cor had glared and refused and gone back to signing with a scowl. 

It wasn't like Nyx needed the company, really. They weren't even talking – Nyx couldn't really talk for long without getting tired or falling sleep mid sentence, and he had trouble following up his own line of thought three words in – or anything. Cor was just there, all the time, quiet and solid and irritated, and every time Nyx woke up, he remained there, with more or less paperwork, and sometimes a cup of coffee, but that was it. That was it. 

And of course, with Cor in the room, it meant no one else was allowed in. None of the Kingsglaive were bold enough yet, for all they've grown to grudgingly accept Cor as one of their own, after the Walk. Cor occupied the room almost like a physical thing, his presence extending and filling up the space and making sure nothing else but him, and Nyx, could hope to be there. 

So Nyx did not get visitors or news or anything. 

It was... not nice, really, because nice would be not being stuck in a bed feeling like death had warmed over. But he appreciated it. He appreciated it all the more because he hadn't asked for it, even. 

“You're an idiot,” Nyx told him, lying on his side, watching him through half-lidded eyes. “Did you know that?” 

Cor looked up from his paperwork to frown at him. Nyx smiled, eyes closed at him. 

“Perhaps,” Cor conceeded after a moment. “You should be sleeping.” 

“If I sleep anymore, I think I'll spend a month awake, when they let me leave,” Nyx replied, chuckling softly, but not for long, because that made his ribs twitch. 

“That's not how it works at all,” Cor muttered with a roll of his eyes. 

Nyx's only reply was a quiet snore. 

* * *

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Nyx asked quietly, head bowed as Cor's fingers wove the braids back in place. “I don't want to scare him.” 

“You look fine,” Cor replied, sliding a bead into place and tying off the braid. “He doesn't need to know it's just skin deep.” 

“A decade,” Nyx snorted, buring his face into his left hand, since the right one was still covered by the cast – but they'd taken out most of the bits of metal so it didn't look quite as terrible anymore – and groaned. “And you're still the most incompetent when it comes to reassuring.” 

“I'm allergic,” Cor deadpanned succintly, and then ran his fingers through Nyx's hair, judging his handiwork. “I suppose that'll do.” 

“Gee, thanks,” Nyx said, and leaned his face against Cor's chest. Cor let his arm fall around his shoulders, gently enough not to jostle him too much. “I really appreciate the fact you haven't yelled at me for this.” 

“Oh, I'll yell at you alright,” Cor retorted, pressing the words against the crown of Nyx's head. “It's just not fun when you're not strong enough to yell back.” 

“God, you're such a fucking ass,” Nyx laughed, though it trailed off into a small cough. “Okay.” He shuddered out a sigh. “Okay, I'm good. Let's do this.” 

“It'll be fine,” Cor insisted, but pulled away enough to let Nyx settle back on the bed. “Just... take it slow.” 

“Right,” Nyx said, nodding as he watched Cor pull out his phone and type out a short message. “Slow.” 

The next fifteen minutes were the longest of his life, probably. He found himself chewing absently on a braid, and only noticed because Cor reached a hand to pluck it out of his mouth before he could unravel it entirely. Cor had the gall to smile at him for it. Nyx stuck his tongue out at him in retaliation. 

When Aranea finally opened the door to the room, Prompto stood there for a very long moment, eyes wide and expression cautious. Nyx licked his lips. 

“Hey, little man,” he said, eyes softening as he did his best to smile. 

It hurt like hell, when Prompto threw himself at him, clambering onto the bed and into his arms as best he could, but Nyx didn't care, because the boy was crying and nothing in the world mattered more than that. 

“It's okay,” Nyx said, good arm curled around Prompto's shoulders as he buried his sobs into the crook of Nyx's neck. “I'm okay.” He raised his eyes to catch Cor's, and then moved to offer a small smile in the face of Aranea's stony disapproval. “I'm okay.” 

It sounded almost real, when he said it like that. 

“You should have taken me with you,” Aranea hissed at him, so quiet it almost went unheard. 

Nyx did not miss the way Cor's shoulders twitched. 

“Maybe,” Nyx conceeded, balancing precariously between the impotent rage in Aranea's eyes and the line of tension bunching up right at the base of Cor's neck. “Maybe not. I'm glad you weren't there to see it happen.” 

“Shit happens,” Aranea snapped back, hands clenched into fists as Nyx tried his best to pat Prompto's hair and let him cry to his heart content. “Shit _always_ happens, that's the first rule of going out in the field. Why the fuck am I even in the ranks if you're not going to let me watch your back?” 

“It's not your job to watch my back, Nea,” Nyx pointed out with a frown, “especially not when I'm being admittedly stupid and seizing a split-second decision.” 

“Of course it's my job to watch your back,” she glowered, “that's what... I'm just...” She turned to Cor, even as she pointed an accusing finger at Nyx. “Tell him he's being _stupid_!” 

Nyx's lips twitched as Cor ran a hand through her bangs and pulled her close, and she went, docile and borderline affectionate, melting into the hug. 

“You're being stupid,” Cor told him dutifully, lips twitching a sliver. 

Aranea ducked her head and made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat, face pressed against Cor's chest. 

“Yeah,” Nyx replied, shaking his head a little. “So I've heard.” 

* * *

Nyx was moved to a regular room late one Sunday evening. The bright side was that it meant he was probably going to be released soon, and he appreciated that since he was awake most of the time now, and that meant he had time to go stircrazy. The down side was that it also meant he was officially no longer hooked on what he'd jokingly called The Good Shit, and so everything hurt pretty much always. 

On Monday, at eight sharp, Libertus kicked the door open and pushed into the room followed by a crowd of antsy Kingsglaives that only stopped halfway in when they realized Cor was sitting in the armchair next to Nyx's bedside, calmly reading a book. 

The silence stretched as Nyx shifted his eyes from Cor to his men, back and forth. 

“Cor,” he hissed quietly, feeling dread crust up his insides, as Cor closed the book and left it on the small beside table. “Don't.” 

“I should get a coffee,” the absolute fucking asshole murmured back, carefully not looking in Nyx's direction, and instead addressing the shifting, nervous crowd. His lips twitched just barely into a smile. “I think I will be taking the long way down... and back up.” 

The Kingsglaive scrambled to get out of his way as he calmly walked out of the room, utterly ignoring Nyx's dark glare. Because he was a trecherous bastard. The worst. The absolute worst. 

Nyx swallowed hard as all eyes turned back to him, eerily synchronized. 

“...hey,” he said, just as Libertus' face flushed purple with concerned anger. “So. ...what's up?” 

The floodgates burst open all at once. 

“ _You fucking idiot!_ ” 

Nyx winced and laughed and tried very hard not to think about how close that last close call had been. 

* * *

Nyx watched Prompto diligently drawing all over the cast on his leg, carefully converting a line of cartoony penises into cactuars like a man on a mission. It really wasn't necessary, but he appreciated the effort, nonetheless. It was sweet. The cast on his arm had been left well alone, if only because there were still bits of metal stuck to it and no one wanted to go anywhere that, not even Tredd I-am-an-insufferable-jackass Furia, who incidentally had been the insufferable jackass that had decorated most of Nyx's leg with doodles of cocks in the first place. 

“Dad?” Prompto asked, not looking up from the cast. “You're going to be okay, aren't you?” 

“Probably, yeah,” Nyx replied, as lighthearted as he could make his tone. “I mean, the worst of it is over, so it's just. You know. Giving myself time to heal.” Nyx grinned wryly. “I'm going to be the laziest couch potato for months, apparently.” 

Prompto frowned a little, carefully filling in the mouth and eyes of a cactuar. Nyx waited patiently for him to gather his thoughts. Sometimes, and the thought filled him up with something that felt airy and ridiculous and wondrous, Prompto took more after Cor than after him. 

“I'd have been sad,” Prompto said quietly, “if you'd died.” 

“I know,” Nyx said, reaching with his good – better? - hand to ruffle Prompto's hair. “Sorry about the scare.” 

“I wasn't scared,” Prompto muttered, arching his neck and pressing his head into Nyx's fingers. “I was... I don't know. It was weird.” He gave Nyx a look through the messy blond bangs. “Don't do that again. Please?” 

Nyx opened his mouth to explain this was part and parcel of his job. 

“I won't,” he promised instead, and somehow, he realized he meant it. 

* * *

“Someone's popular,” Letho mused, smiling at the dirty look Nyx gave her and the flowers in her hands. 

Which were coincidentally exactly the same arrangement as the other twenty currently occupying every available solid surface in the room, after two of Nyx's younger cadets came in at the same time with the exact same arrangement they bought in the hospital's store, and the rest of the on guard Kingsglaive decided to make a game out of it. Nyx was touched by the gesture, even if he was contractually obligated to act annoyed about it, lest the joke fell flat. Despite the round of screaming – it had actually been screaming, and the head nurse had had to get involved – he'd endured, he found a measure of comfort in knowing his troops valued him enough to be worried about him. It was a weirdly nice feeling, though he could certainly do without the near-death experience to enjoy it. 

“You don't have to sound surprised about it,” Nyx said, offering his best attempt at a pout. “I'm very likable.” 

“Yes,” Letho agreed easily, snickering as she went to squeeze her little vase on the small table by the window, “and also very stupid.” 

“Lies,” Nyx retorted, grinning at her. “I'll have you know I'm a military genius.” 

Letho rolled her eyes and went to sit on the edge of Nyx's bed, folding her hands in her lap. 

“Your husband once said something very wise,” she began, and then laughed when Nyx rolled his eyes. 

“We're not actually married,” he insisted, shaking his head. “Not that you care, obviously.” 

“Obviously,” she replied, and then sat up straight when Cor walked into the room with a three-inch thick binder and a cup of coffee. “Marshal.” 

Cor blinked at her. 

“Letho,” he said quietly, and then frowned, “I'll come back later-” 

“Oh no, no,” Letho offered a small, nervous smile. “Please, it's alright.” 

Nyx smiled at her. Letho did not notice until it was too late, but then her attention tended to focus solely on Cor, whenever he was in the same room as her. Nyx always found it amusing. 

“She was just about to impart your wisdom on me, actually,” Nyx said, and grinned when Letho spluttered and glowered at him. 

Cor settled in his seat and snorted. 

“Good,” he deadpanned, giving Letho an almost long-suffering look. “Maybe the proxy will make it stick this time.” 

“Ow,” Nyx said, and grinned as Letho rolled her eyes at him. 

“One can only hope,” she said primly, sniffing disdainfully. “You're only as good as your last battle, after all,” she added, giving a slightly shy smile at Cor. 

Cor blinked and then snorted. 

“The funny thing is,” he said, placing the binder on his lap and folding his hands over it. “I never did actually say that.” 

“You didn't?” Letho asked, blinking. 

Cor shook his head. 

“Clarus did,” he explained, wry smile tugging at his lips. “Well, the spirit of it. If I recall correctly, verbatim it was more like, _what fucking good are you, if you're dead?_ ” He smirked as Letho bit back a laugh and slapped a hand on her face. “He was slightly put out, at the time.” 

“I wonder why,” Nyx deadpanned and laughed as Cor made a show of shrugging innocently. “So it turns out maybe your wisdom doesn't stick because you're a big hypocritical twit.” 

“Nyx!” Letho admonished, “be nice to the Marshal.” 

“Indeed,” Cor agreed, and then arched both eyebrows, “I believe the saying is, do as I say, not as I do.” 

“Oh, _now_ you tell me,” Nyx sighed dramatically. 

“Be nice,” Letho insisted, and then smiled as she pulled out her phone and waved it meaningfully. “Or no Prompto videos for you.” 

“Isn't that illegal?” Nyx pointed out skeptically, just to be a brat. “Taking video of a kid?” 

Letho scoffed. 

“Only if you do not have their parent's permission,” she retorted, tilting her chin up arrogantly. 

“ _I_ didn't give you permission,” Nyx said, in his best snotty tone. 

“You're not the parent whose permission I got,” Letho snapped back, smug. 

Cor stared at the wall and pretended very hard he wasn't there. 

* * *

After six tortuous, boring weeks in the hospital, Nyx was finally released to go home. 

“I'm here under extreme duress,” Luche said, giving Nyx a dirty look as he tried to occupy as little space as possible in the couch. “I want to make emphasis on that.” 

Nyx sprawled on the other side of the couch, definitely taking as much space up as he felt like – it was his couch, dammit, he could sprawl on it if he wanted to – resting his cheek on a fist as he studied his surly subordinate with an amused little smirk. 

“Duly noted,” Nyx replied, smirk widening just so when Luche glowered viciously at him. 

Nyx had never been overly fond of Luche. It was natural, they were both young prodigies, and they had always chafed somewhat, under... Glauca's leadership. A lot of... the previous commander's favorites had found themselves in a very awkward position, once... Nyx had been promoted. That was to say, it had been a bloody screaming mess full of bruised feelings and constant suspicion, and Nyx still looked back at those first years and wondered absently how he'd managed to survive it without murdering someone or getting murdered in return. He tried not to think about it too much. It was done, anyway. It was over. They'd moved on, some kicking and screaming, some running head first into whatever might come next. 

They were fine. 

Nyx still didn't like Luche much, personally. He was excellent to have around, in the field, of course. He was calm under pressure. He was strong and smart and capable of following orders to the letter, when necessary. But he was still an asshole. And no, Nyx did not think so just because he kept dating his daughter on and off and being extremely, obnoxiously nonchallant about it. Cor was fine with it. So Nyx was too. Really. 

“Look, I just have some questions,” Luche muttered sullenly, scowling up a storm. “Once I figure it out, I'll get out of your hair.” 

Nyx nodded diplomatically. 

“Fine by me,” he said, in his best neutral tone. “Paperwork is always a bitch.” 

Luche's scowl deepened somewhat. 

“Look,” he said, flaring his nostrils and bracing, as if expecting a fight. “I know you don't like me much and frankly I'm not drowning in love for you, and I'm sure you'd much rather someone closer to you was doing this, but they're not. And I am. So let's not make this any harder than it has any need to be.” 

Nyx blinked at him, and then snorted. 

“Lazarus, I've been doing this for nearly a decade now,” he said, one eyebrow arched. “Give me some credit.” He smirked. “I know the men under my command. To be honest, I'm a little surprised it took you this long to take charge, honestly.” 

Luche stared. 

“What.” 

Nyx snorted. 

“Look at them!” He said, smiling with exhasperated fondness. “Libertus likes to boss people around, but he hasn't got the patience to explain why he's ordering anything, and he just gets pissy when no one does as he says.” Nyx ticked off a finger, shaking his head. “Plus, he's a black pit of foul mood pretty much always, and that's Not Allowed, when you're in command. It's bad for morale. He'd be dead or locked up for muder on his first day, guaranteed.” 

Luche opened his mouth to argue, just on principle, but ended up closing it with a frown. 

“He's not the only one with seniority,” he pointed out, just to be contrary, but all it did was make Nyx grin wryly. 

“You're absolutely right, let's go through the Captains, shall we?” Nyx ticked a second finger. “Crowe would set the Citadel on fire. That's not even an exaggeration and she wouldn't need much excuse. She just likes setting things on fire, and she's very good at it.” He ticked a third finger. “Pelna couldn't lead his way out of a wet paper bag even if his life depended on it. Plus, he'd have to deal with Cor on a near daily basis, and Amira would kick my balls in for killing her husband with sheer stress.” A fourth, too. “Tred is an idiot. A reliable idiot, but still an idiot.” Nyx moved onto the hand still wrapped up in a cast, then. “Sonitus can't be arsed. Ellea is still on probation over the scuffle with the Crownsguard two months ago. Gutsco micromanages himself into a frenzy whenever he's left to his own devices. And Delilah is on maternity leave.” Nyx arched both eyebrows at Luche, basking in the dumbstruck expression on his face. “Anyone else lacks rank or seniority to really give this whole command thing a shot. So. No, I'm not opposed to you doing this at all. In fact, I think you're the man for the job, really.” 

Luche gave him an odd look, but Nyx only shrugged. 

“Yes, well,” Luche said, looking away with an annoyed look on his face, that Nyx fancied meant he was flustered. “Whatever. Let's get it done, then.” 

Nyx grinned, and then walked Luche through the frankly byzantinne turns of some of the forms and shared all the little tricks he'd learned, to navigate the ludicrous bureaucracy that governed the Lucian military. 

“Well, that's the last of it,” Luche sighed despondently, staring at the pages of notes he'd accumulated over the resulting four hours. 

Nyx laughed, and then grinned when Luche glared at him. 

“Oh, that's just the wrap up from my little mess,” he said, purposefully cheerful for the sake of the horrified look on Luche's face. “You still have a month of backlog to get through, Lazarus.” 

“ _What_ ,” Luche deadpanned, no longer even in the vecinity of being amused. 

“Cor's been helping out,” Nyx informed him, lips twitching when Luche scowled on reflex. “Most of our daily paperwork is pretty similar, so he's been pulling rank and filing the bare essentials, like salary releases and barracks maintenance, but everything else is probably piling up as we speak.” 

“Salary releases?” Luche asked, blinking. 

Nyx blinked back. 

“So you guys get paid,” he explained, one eyebrow arched. “And barracks maintenance, for the kids staying there. You know, the cleanup crews and the basic supplies. Cor's been handling the requisitions for those too.” Nyx's smile softened a sliver. “But he's got enough to look after himself, so it's not like he's really handling everything.” 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Luche said, scowling. “You have to file shit for _everything_?” 

“I know, right?” Nyx laughed again. “Lucians are insane, man.” Luche stared. “Well, no, I lie. I don't have to file shit for _literally_ everything. They still haven't asked me to requisition the air we breathe, though not for lack of trying, I'm sure.” 

The look on Luche's face was the stuff dreams were made of. 

“Anyway, there's also a lot of council meetings and stuff in my calendar, but ignore those,” Nyx said, waving a hand dismissively. “I've got an official proxy for those, and they're gonna yell at her a lot less than they'd yell at you.” He smirked. “See, Lazarus? I like you, I'm saving you from all the yelling.” 

Luche had that dubious, squinty look on his face again. 

Nyx grinned and began explaining the wondrous world of requisition forms to him. 

* * *

“I am. So. Bored.” 

Cor didn't bother to look up from his desk. Nyx pouted at him, though he appreciated the fact Cor was working from home to keep him company. And that he'd helped him down the stairs to the basement, so he could sprawl on one of the plushy armchairs. He'd traded the cast on his right arm for a nice, lightweight brace, while his wrist finished healing, and he'd been told to do a lot of dumb, repetitive exercises to get mobility and finer motor skills back to normal. His leg remained in the cast, though, and would remain there for at least another month, because aparently high velocity falls from more than 60 feet were actually dangerous and left long-lasting damage. Who knew? 

“You should take up knitting,” Cor told him, shuffling the papers in front of him into a neat pile for Monica to pick up later. 

Nyx snorted. 

“What?” 

Cor looked up, finally, one eyebrow arched, and folded his arms on the desk, leaning in with a wry expression on his face. 

“Knitting,” he said, clearly amused by the dubious look on Nyx's face. “It's actually really good to get finer motor control back, and it's also considerably less demeaning than calligraphy books.” He paused meaningfully. “Then again, your handwriting has always been obscenely illegible, so maybe don't stop doing the calligraphy practice entirely.” 

“Yes, well, not everybody got the chance to finish elementary school before war caused schools to close down,” Nyx muttered a little self-consciously, even though he knew for a fact Cor had somehow managed to skip even more formal education than him. 

It was a bit of a sorespot, anyway. No one gave Cor shit for the fact he'd been entirely illiterate when he'd joined the Crownsguard, because of course they didn't. But one of the biggest hurdles Nyx had had to navigate in the first few years as Commander of the Kingsglaive was the fact that suddenly being literate had not been the same as being educated. He hated being made feel stupid, for all he knew rationally that he wasn't. It'd been a pain and a half to get himself up to speed with all the stuff the King's council wanted him to know before they'd deign to talk to him like he was halfway a human being or take anything he said seriously. Cor had been good help, back then, pointing him in the direction of a few online courses and telling him how to circunvent a few obstacles to get him access to the Royal Archives, and Nyx knew that he would have probably had a much harder time, if he hadn't been there. 

These days, Nyx felt comfortable enough to stare down most Lords, even when they started huffing and puffing about him not having an official degree, at least. Then again, being given rank by the King himself did help a lot with that, for all Nyx had gloriously lost his shit at the announcement. He could technically apply to complete an Administration degree with the Royal University, anyway: he was missing about three credits for it and the final exams. He'd checked, a few years back, when the stress of not being able to get a word in was starting to drive him mad. But he was very studiously procrastinating that, because he really didn't want to be the first Galahdian to graduate from there. He was already the first Galahdian General and the first Galahdian to regularly attend court and the first Galahdian to guard the Oracle and the first Galahdian to be considered part of a King's inner circle. It made him sick to think about, sometimes. 

“I found it relaxing,” Cor replied, almost gently, skillfully sidestepping the glaring, gaping wound with a small wry smile and a well placed shrug. 

Nyx reminded himself he loved the idiot, all over again, and took the invitation to pry, rather than allow himself to wallow on it. 

“You knit?” He asked, with the suitable amount of surprise to make the question almost teasing, but not mocking. 

Cor shrugged again. 

“Used to,” he admitted, resting an elbow on the desk and his chin on his hand, his eyes half-lidded. “Then again, I used to get half-killed a lot more often, twenty years ago.” 

* * *

“You sent the Oracle to your council meetings,” Luche said, about two weeks later, staring at Nyx and his current pathetic attempts to master the simple foward stitch. 

It turned out knitting was actually very mentally consuming, what with the fact his brain refused to accept that tying string up in knots somehow made it into something else, and also because his hands were being dumb and not working like they should. Nyx liked it, anyway, and not only because he could sometimes coax Cor into sitting with him and wrapping his arms around him while he tried to guide him through the motions. 

“Yes,” Nyx replied, unrepentant, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth as he squinted at a stray loop of yarn. It was incidentally the same look Prompto wore on his face whenever he was doing something particularly difficult, too. 

“You sent the Oracle, _in your stead_ , to your council meetings.” 

“Yep,” Nyx agreed, looking up briefly just to gauge if Luche was going to splutter himself into a coma, and whether Nyx would need to hop his way to the kitchen to call an ambulance or not. “She lost a bet, a while back. Well, less of a bet and more like she wagered her services in that capacity during a six hour poker game that she ended up losing, to be precise.” 

“ _The Oracle_ ,” Luche hissed, looking like he'd chewed through something sour. 

“To be fair,” Nyx retorted, grinning in satisfaction as he managed to get the stranded loop of yarn back into place, even though it left behind a hole in the weave wide enough for one of his fingers to poke through. “They yell at her a lot less than me, for some reason.” 

“She's the goddamn Oracle, Ulric!” Luche cried out in outrage, throwing his arms up in the air in what Nyx considered an entirely unnecessary and melodramatic fashion. But then, Luche had never spent enough time with him to really see all the things Nyx was capable of doing that really merited that kind of reaction. “She's a Queen! You can't just... you can't use a _Queen_ as your deputy!” 

“Turns out I can!” Nyx replied, grinning. “We checked. If she's willing, she can totally be my deputy for pretty much anything, really. But you're missing the point here,” he added, giving Luche a sly look over how proud he was of himself and his cunning. “She's not just a Queen, Lazarus. She's the _Swan_ Queen.” 

Luche stared. 

“She's the what now?” 

Nyx bared his teeth in his best shit-eatting grin. 

“The Royal Coat of Arms of Tenebrae is two interlocking black swans on a field of white,” he explained, in his best didactic tone. Luche continued staring, so Nyx decided to continue educating his dumb ass. “The Tenebrae monarchs, besides being Oracles, are also traditionally called Swan Kings or Queens.” 

Luche continued to stare. 

“So?” 

Nyx gave him a pitying look. 

“...have you ever actually _met_ a swan, Lazarus?” He asked, one eyebrow arched tauntingly. “The actual birds, I mean.” 

“...no?” Luche gave him a weird look. “I mean, I know they're like... thinner, whiter ducks.” 

“Oh dear, field trip time, I suppose,” Nyx said, trying not to sound too excited about the prospect. 

Luche spluttered. 

“What? No!” He glared. “I have work to do, a lot of work to do, thanks to your stupid ass, and you're supposed to stay home.” 

Nyx gave Luche an absolutely infuriating smirk. 

“You realize I still outrank you, yes?” 

Luche glared. It was not enough to save him. 

* * *

A few years back, some snotty Lord or another, had donated the funds to build an artificial pond in the garden of the estate that had been given to the Oracle's family, as a grandiose gesture of sorts. 

There were swans there. 

Nyx amused himself sitting in a nearby bench and watching Luche shriek and be chased by an angry mob of feathers after being told to go feed them. 

Nyx had the gall to call the whole thing educational. 

* * *

“You're so dumb,” Aranea told him, offering her hands to help him try and untangle the mess of yarn he'd made all over the living room. 

“Probably,” Nyx agreed philosophically. “Though this is harder than it looks.” 

“Everyone's slacking off,” Aranea went on, ignoring Nyx and his knitting like she ignored everything that made her feel weird. “Luche's a moron and we're getting the most boring jobs. We were dispatched to guard Garulas in Duscae last week.” She paused significantly. “ _Garulas_.” 

Nyx shrugged. 

“Most of Duscae survives purely on them,” he pointed out. “There's no job too small, Nea.” 

“There bloody well is,” she snapped back, trying to pretend she wasn't sulking. “When are you coming back?” 

“Officially?” Nyx snorted wryly. “I've been told I'll be lucky to be field-ready by beginnings of next year.” 

“That long?” Aranea asked quietly, frowning. 

“On the upside, that's only for field jobs,” Nyx added, grinning a little. “I should be able to get back to work as soon as I can walk again. It's mostly just my magic that's still shot to hell.” He arched an eyebrow. “I kinda need it to fight, you know? I've gotten used to it.” 

“It's been like three months now!” Aranea scoffed. “Magic regenerates a lot faster than that!” 

“Turns out it doesn't, if you spend literally every last speck of it at once,” Nyx replied, wincing. “Which I guess it's good to know, in our line of work.” 

“Well, that'll teach you to nearly kill yourself,” she pointed out, still frowning in disapproval. 

“Tell me about it,” Nyx laughed, dropping his head forward. “I really thought the worst that'd happen was that I'd get yelled at and then get a potion cracked on my skull again. I didn't even know potions and stuff needed base magic in the target to work. It's stupid.” 

“You're stupid,” Aranea retorted dryly, shaking her head. “If they didn't, the King would have to spend all his time healing people.” 

“Like the Oracle, you mean?” Nyx pointed out, voice equally dry. 

Aranea wrinkled her nose. 

“That's different! The Oracles were Healers first, and then Kings and Queens. The Lucian Kings have always been Kings.” She paused. “Or Queens. Who's ever heard of a Lucian Healer-King- _Thing_?” 

“You could just admit you love me and you were worried I was going to die,” Nyx said with a grin, watching her face flush as she spluttered. 

“You can fuck right off,” Aranea announced sharply and then threw the tangled up yarn in her hands straight at Nyx's face. “Dumbass.” 

“Aww, do you need a hug?” 

Aranea made a warning sound in the back of her throat. Nyx laughed and it only made her growl louder. A few hours later, when he was back trying to figure out the sheer mystic fuckery required to doubleback a forward stitch, and her head was quite comfortably resting on his thigh, he was feeling gracious enough to not say anything. 

Cor took a picture anyway, because Cor was smart like that. 

* * *

“I hate running,” Nyx announced despondently during breakfast, a week after they'd finally taken off the cast in his leg. 

“You've mentioned before, yes,” Cor muttered unhelpfully, pretending he was reading the paper and not keeping a very careful eye on whatever their children were doing, under the pretense of making breakfast. 

So far as Nyx was aware, Cor really was the only soul under their roof who could be steadily trusted to handle open flames, but then Prompto had insisted on trying to do something nice, and of course Aranea took any slight on her abilities to do anything as a personal challenge. 

Nyx was not entirely sure they weren't all going to end up in the ER before the morning was out, but at least at this point he felt he was in good terms with most of the hospital staff. The ones that weren't weird about him being Galahdian anyway. 

“It's just so dumb!” Nyx whined irritably, “what am I? A hamster in a wheel?” 

“You're certainly cheeky enough for it,” Cor deadpanned unrepentantly. 

“Oh that was vile,” Aranea pointed out, laughing at the terrible pun and the glare Nyx was piling on Cor for it, “even for you.” 

Cor had the nerve to salute her with his mug. 

“You're being a hypocritical twit again,” Nyx said, sniffing disdainfully at him. “I've seen you fight, Marshal, you wouldn't run even if your pants were on fire.” 

“It's good to build up stamina,” Cor replied, unmoved by Nyx's words – or the truth behind them; even when he was in a hurry, he didn't run: he _glided_. He was very good at it, too, always looking graceful and deadly and no, Nyx did not find it terribly distracting, of course not. “It's the basic of all training regimes for a reason.” 

“It's stupid,” Nyx deadpanned, “and I hate it.” 

“I can go out on your runs with you, dad,” Prompto offered solicitously, bringing along a plate of what Nyx supposed had been meant to be blueberry pancakes, slightly charred at the edges. 

“Really?” Nyx asked, eyebrows arched. “I thought you hated running too.” 

Prompto made a point to wrinkle his nose before turning back to get Cor's plate. 

“I do,” he said, bringing another offering of vaguely misshapen pancakes, which Cor slathered with enough honey to be unable to taste any funny business beneath. “But Miss Savis always says it's best to do things you hate in the company of people you love.” 

There was a moment of silence before Nyx reached out to pull Prompto close and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. Prompto squeaked and laughed, making a fuss as he flushed in embarrassment. 

“Letho does, on occasion, have some very pointed wisdom of her own,” Cor pointed out with a half smile. 

“Oh?” Nyx asked, grinning, “does that mean you're coming along for the morning runs too?” 

Cor snorted. 

“No.” 

Nyx laughed. 

“Nea?” 

Aranea looked up from her plate – she was trying to cut off the black bits with her fork – and snorted Cor's trademark acid snort. 

“ _Fuck_ no.” 

“Fine, I see how it is,” Nyx mused dramatically, looking around the table with a fond smile. “Good to know who really loves me.” 

Prompto beamed proudly. 

* * *

“You still haven't yelled at me,” Nyx said, slowly fiddling with the buttons of his dress jacket – seriously, Kingsglaive uniforms were ridiculous and somehow, Nyx had been meaning to address that for a decade and never really gotten around to it – as he watched Cor slide into bed with one of those thick, ridiculously gory history treaties he liked to read. “About the near dying thing,” Nyx added helpfully, throwing the jacket on a nearby chair placed by the bathroom door explicitly for the purpose of Nyx and his clothes-throwing habit, when he undressed at the end of the day. “I mean, I'm pretty sure I'm strong enough to take it, at this point.” There was a small pause as Cor gave him a pointed look. Nyx grinned slyly. “I meant the yelling. But I'm pretty sure I can take your cock too, if you're in the mood for it.” 

Cor rolled his eyes. 

“I'll keep it in mind,” he murmured, shifting under the covers until he found his place. He gave Nyx a brief look before he opened his book, “and I'll be sure to give it the consideration it deserves.” 

Nyx laughed and cracked his back as he continued to fuss with his uniform. He rarely wore the dress one, unless he was attending something suitably official – and Sylvia yelled at him about it – not even for his ridiculous biweekly screaming matches with the King's council. But it felt necessary, almost, on his first day back assuming command. Like it gave gravity to the whole thing, even if it had involved more than a few jokes and a lot of taunting piled on both him and Luche for their respective attempts at leadership. 

It had gone well, though. Mostly. His magic was coming back, finally, though he still didn't feel strong enough to try warping just yet. The running, for all he despised it, had gotten him mostly back in shape. He wore the wrist brace only on occasion. Luche had somehow managed to keep on top of the paperwork, even though Nyx booked him two solid weeks of time off, as his first official order, if only because the kid looked like he was about to have a nervous breakdown. 

Nyx crawled under the covers and settled in _his_ place, which was sprawled half way onto Cor, head resting on his shoulder. 

“I'm not... angry at you, for what you did,” Cor said quietly, fingers sneaking beneath the braids to scratch at Nyx's scalp. “Not really.” 

“I did what needed doing,” Nyx said, not defensively, but more like... resigned. 

“I know,” Cor agreed, and then snorted, catching Nyx's eye with his own as he gave him a tiny smirk. “You survived the war, and then you get done in by a daemon crab.” 

“A really big daemon crab,” Nyx pointed out, scoffing. “I didn't even know deathclaws came that big.” 

Cor smirked. 

“They can be bigger,” he said, eyes dancing in direct proportion to the scowl in Nyx's face. “Actually.” 

“I'm going to kiss you now,” Nyx deadpanned, looking annoyed. “A lot. And then you're going to put your book away and give me the best fucking orgasm of my life, because you did not just use that fucking dick joke on me. _Again_. It's been ten years, holy shit, Cor, you can't just _do_ that.” 

“Pretty sure I can do that,” Cor replied, and then leaned in to kiss Nyx before he could splutter himself to death. 

That, after all, would be a terribly undignified way to die. 


	14. year xi

* * *

_year xi_

* * *

The worst part of having sex with Luche was the fact his shower was shit. 

Objectively, it had to be the worst shower Aranea had ever used in her life, and she'd used some pretty horrible showers, growing up. She rubbed her arms, trying to ignore the quickly cooling suds on her skin. 

“You good?” She asked, looking over her shoulder to find him still frantically scrubbing at his hair. 

“Hang on, hang on,” he muttered, shifting from one foot to the next, because it was goddamn freezing and they both knew it was about to get worse. 

“How the fuck do you take longer than me to wash your hair?” Aranea snorted, staring at the slightly cracked tiles. 

“Shut up,” Luche snorted, and let out a sharp breath, “okay. On three.” 

Aranea was mean enough to turn the water back on on two, and snickered when he hissed, as the blast of lukewarm, quickly cooling water hit them both head on. It always seemed like they were going to make it, too. That was the true shittiness about Luche's shower. It always seemed like they had enough time to rinse off before the hot – lukewarm – water ran out, and it was always a lie. Then they got hit in the face by a torrent of freezing cold water and pretended really hard they didn't hear the sounds that were invariably made when that happened. 

“One of these days, I'm going to fix your plumbing,” Aranea muttered snidely, as they spilled into bed. Luche snorted. Aranea glared. “I'm going to _learn_ how to fix your plumbing, and then I'm going to fix your plumbing, and then I'm going to kill you with a wrench.” 

“I'm sure you will,” Luche snorted, curling up under the covers. 

“You're doubting the lengths I'll go out of spite,” Aranea said, one eyebrow arched as she rested her head in one hand and laid on her side, staring down at him almost pitifully. 

“Oh, I don't doubt you'll _try_ ,” Luche replied, smirking back at her. “I'm doubting your ability to suceed.” 

Aranea rolled her eyes and placed a hand on his face, when he leaned in to kiss her. 

“This is why you can't keep a girlfriend to save your life,” she told him, and then squawked when he licked her palm. 

“Because I don't believe you can fix the pipes from hell?” He asked dubiously, and then snorted when she wiped her hand on his cheek. 

“Because your plumbing _sucks_ ,” she paused, “well, that and because you like the smell of crazy.” 

Luche stared for a moment, and then shook his head, trying not to laugh. 

“...yeah, I'm not even going to pretend I know what the hell that even means.” 

“It means I'm right, and you're wrong,” Aranea explained with the air of someone who'd gone through that same exchange far too many times to count, “which is basically how things should always be.” 

“I mean, you keep saying that,” Luche teased, lips quirked into a lopsided smirk, “but I'm still not sold.” 

“Free samples have no pricetag,” Aranea retorted, one eyebrow arched arrogantly. 

Luche opened his mouth to offer a suitable rebuke, then closed it as he frowned. 

“I swear this conversation had a point,” he muttered, shaking his head, “but I can't for the life of me remember it.” 

Aranea laughed at that, covering her face with her free hand, and Luche joined her, a moment later. When the laughter died out, they laid there a moment longer, basking in the fact they were no longer half-frozen from the shower and still lingering on a bit of that fuzzy, relaxed feeling that came with a good orgasm. 

“Gnn, I should go,” Aranea said after a long, long moment, just as she was starting to wind down enough to feel drowsy, and didn't really bother to cover her face as she yawned. 

Luche yawned back on reflex, and she snickered at him when he offered a toke glare for it. 

“Just stay the night,” he said, even though she was already sitting up and hunting around for her clothes. “It's like... what, two?” 

“Quarter to,” Aranea replied, squinting at the alarm clock buried beneath Luche's ever growing collection of unfolded laundry. “And I can't, I promised the little tyke I'd take him and his dumb friends out for breakfast tomorrow.” 

“Seriously?” Luche said, frowning. “Stay the night, you can leave early tomorrow.” 

“Nah,” Aranea shrugged, fussing with her underwear. “Don't feel like dealing with your snoring tonight.” 

Luche made a rude gesture with his hand, expression unamused. 

“I don't snore,” he informed her snottily, “but fine.” He frowned as he watched Aranea fish out her beads from the small ashtray on the nightstand, where he kept his own, stringed together with a small silver chain. “Take my jacket,” he added, nodding to it, where he'd thrown it on the back of a chair. 

“The hell would I do that?” Aranea asked, pulling her shirt down with a frown. 

“Because it's two in the morning,” Luche pointed out dryly, “and even thugs know better than to fuck with someone in Kingsglaive uniform.” 

“Oh no, _thugs_ ,” Aranea deadpanned, making sure Luche was looking before she rolled her eyes at him. “I'll be quaking in my boots as soon as I put them back on.” 

“Just take the fucking jacket,” he snapped, running a hand through his hair. “And text me when you get home.” 

Aranea made a point to put on the jacket, which looked vaguely ridiculous on her, considering Luche had a solid foot on her, height-wise. 

“There,” she said, rolling up the sleeves a few times, just so she looked a bit less stupid, “wearing a jacket that couldn't possibly be mine, to ward off imaginary thugs. Are you happy now, mother?” 

“I'm never happy,” Luche informed her with a snort, “I'm allergic.” 

Aranea threw her arms up in defeat, and waved dismissively as she left. Luche turned pointedly on his side, and pretended to go to sleep, even though he kept texting back as she narrated the subway ride and the four block walk back to the house. 

Only once she closed the front door and locked it behind her, did she admit that she really didn't have to come sleep four hours in her bed, for the sake of being there when Prompto woke up and demanded to be taken out for breakfast with his friends. But it was the principle of the damn thing. She wasn't dating Luche. She hadn't, truth be told, dated Luche more than four hours before they both agreed it was really _weird_ , and instead moved on to occasionally having sex because that was a lot less stressful and admittedly more fun for all parties involved. She just liked letting Nyx think she was, because it made him twitchy and Luche never missed a chance to help with that. 

But Luche was weird about it, sometimes, and she didn't want to deal with it, particularly not after he got all over Tredd's face earlier, because Arena had admittedly cheated in their pool game and Tredd had, for once in his life, noticed. Luche was the kind of idiot who stood up for her, even though she really didn't need it, and it was amusing until it was weird, and then she needed to put some distance between them before he got _weirder_. 

Which, okay, admittedly, having sex with him right after probably wasn't the best way to go about it, but just because he was dumb didn't mean she needed to punish herself too. Obviously. 

It was just dumb. 

They were _all_ dumb. 

Except her. 

Aranea placed her keys in one of the hooks by the door and toed off her boots before padding quietly across the house. She paused by the dinner table to peer at Nyx's latest puzzle – this one was a landscape of Longwythe peak – and tried one or two pieces, before she gave up on it and headed back to her room. 

She found a plate of pasta on her desk, with a post-it note next to it. 

_Eat something that isn't beer. - C_

So she sat in bed, still wearing Luche's oversized jacket, and ate cold pasta and texted Luche, and before she knew it was seven in the morning and she was expected to go out and handle one irritatingly excited little boy and his friends. 

She was, despite it all, okay with that. 

* * *

“This is, objectively, the _worst_.” 

Cor snorted. Aranea twitched her head slightly to the side to glare in his general direction, but all she got for her trouble was a sharp tsk sound from the tailor and the measuring tape being tightened in reproach. So she contented herself with glaring at him through the mirror. 

“It could be worse,” he murmured in a vaguely placating manner, sitting on the fancy couch in the back of the room, which was, from experience, nowhere near as comfortable as it was pretty. 

“It could always be worse,” she retorted, mouth twitching. 

“Undoubtedly,” Cor went on, unruffled, “but this could be Sylvia levels of worse.” He paused significantly. “At least she's not trying to marry you off,” he added, a touch snide. 

Aranea forced the incredulous cackle into a snort, if only because the tailor had a handful of pins and that glint in his eyes now. 

“She _didn't_.” 

Cor shrugged eloquently. 

“This was before Nyx, obviously,” Aranea guessed, eyebrows arched in amusement. “ _Please_ tell me this was before Nyx.” 

“This was before Nyx,” Cor said calmly, and then made a point to roll his eyes. 

Aranea contemplated that tiny nugget of knowledge as they lapsed into comfortable silence for a bit. She still wasn't very thrilled about the idea of having to play dress up for the King's upcoming birthday celebration, or the fact she'd have to play dress up for the four separate balls for it, but at least she got to choose the colors for the dresses – they were all red, because red was the best color, obviously – and she had Cor to commisserate about it. 

“I should drag Luche along for this,” she mused, after she was finally allowed to put her clothes back on and went to sit next to him on the couch. “At least then I'd be guaranteed to not be the person suffering the most in the room.” 

Cor snorted and dropped an arm around her shoulders, and she leaned back on it without thinking too hard about it, as they waited for his turn on the chopping block. 

“Because that's going to help you convince Nyx you're not dating Luche.” 

Aranea rolled her eyes. 

“There's at least a nautic mile between fucking and dating,” she pointed out, wrinkling her nose. 

Cor twirled a finger around one of her braids and tugged tauntingly on it. 

“He knows that,” he said, and then frowned. “Well, he should. I think he's just forgotten.” He paused. “I also think he just doesn't want to think about you having sex, in general.” 

Aranea knew that was true; it was half the fun of pointing it out for the sake of making Nyx twitchy and one of the best perks of her not-dating Luche, besides the sex being, well, sex. She arched an eyebrow at him. 

“ _You_ don't mind,” she said, because it was true. “Well, so long as it's not on your car.” 

Cor snorted as the tailor beckoned for him, and stood up with that same lazy grace of his that she knew by now meant he didn't particularly want to do what he was doing. 

“It could be worse,” he said, flashing her a small, wry smirk over his shoulder. 

Aranea sighed and supposed he had a point. 

* * *

Gladio stared at her wide-eyed for a moment, before the pain of the slap actually registered and he glared. 

“Hey!” He snarled, trying his best to loom threateningly, which was a decent amount, because he was tall for a thirteen year old, “the hell was that for!” 

Aranea remained unmoved by the display and glared down her nose at him. 

“Apologize to your sister,” she snapped, staring him down with a scowl. “Now.” 

When he didn't immediately move to do so, Aranea reached a hand and pinched his left ear between thumb and index, and tugged him along remorselessly to where Prompto was trying his best to console the crying Iris. To his credit, Gladio looked a lot more contrite, once he realized his sister was actually crying over the prank, as opposed to laughing it off. Aranea released his captive ear and gave him a sharp nudge forward. 

“Iris,” Gladio said, raising his arms placatingly, and then winced when she looked at him wide-eyed and her eyes filled up with tears again. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-” 

“You did,” Aranea interrupted, her arms folded over her chest. “You did mean it, that's why you did it. It was stupid and you know better now.” 

Gladio shrunk, head ducked between his shoulders, but he didn't argue. 

“I do,” he said, looking miserable, “I do, I'm sorry. I thought it'd be funny but it wasn't. I'm sorry, Iris. I won't do it again, promise.” 

“I don't like snakes!” Iris replied, face half buried into Prompto's chest. “You _know_ I don't like snakes!” 

“Prompto hates them too,” Aranea said, lips twitching into a half smile, “don't you?” 

“They're the worst!” Prompto agreed, nodding as he patted Iris' back comfortingly. “Worse than spiders, even!” 

“Spiders are cute!” Iris piped up, head shooting up and just barely avoiding Prompto's jaw. “They weave webs and eat bad bugs and they're fuzzy and nice!” 

“...maybe,” Prompto reluctantly agreed, not looking very convinced. 

Gladio took a deep breath and reached out to hold Iris' hands in his. 

“Sorry,” he said, again, and winced when she still glared a little. “I'll make it up to you.” 

Iris held her glare a moment longer, and then pulled her hands out of his to wrap her arms around him. 

“It was... a little funny,” she admitted reluctantly, with all the magnanimous good will a six year old could muster. “But just a little!” 

Aranea nodded sharply, when Gladio looked up at her, and then dropped a hand on Prompto's mop of unruly hair and gave it a good ruffle. Prompto laughed and wrapped an arm around her waist, looking up adoringly at her. 

Later, after Jared brought out a tray of tea and cookies, Aranea left the three of them in the spacious sitting room of the Amicitia estate and went to have a smoke in the garden. Gladio followed after her. 

“Thank you,” he said, sullen but sincere, looking down at his shoes. 

Aranea waved a hand dismissively at him. 

“I didn't do it for _you_ ,” she pointed out, arching an eyebrow when he frowned at her. “Here's the thing, kid.” 

“I'm not a kid!” He snapped back immediately, frown melting into an outright scowl. 

“You're _the dumbest_ kid,” Aranea went on, unmoved by his protests. “But Prompto looks up to you. If you're a shitty big brother to your actual sister, how can I expect you to be a decent one to him?” 

“Prompto doesn't need an older brother,” Gladio retorted petulantly, frowning at her. “He's got you.” 

“Maybe,” Aranea agreed, head tilted to the side. “But if I'm ever not here, he'll have to make do with you.” 

“Why wouldn't you be here?” Gladio demanded, frowning again. Aranea personally thought the kid already looked too much like his father, even without the perpetual frowning. She kind of hoped he'd grow out of it, eventually. “Are you going on a mission?” 

She shrugged. 

“Something like that,” she said vaguely, tipping off the ash into the grass. “But you get it, don't you?” 

Gladio nodded slowly. 

“I don't know if I'm the right person for that job, though,” he admitted after a moment. “I'm... my first priority must always be the Prince,” he said, in the rehearsed tone that let Aranea hear his father's voice coming out of his mouth. “I can't... I can't promise I'll protect him, or-” 

“Here's a secret for you,” she said, and took a drag of her cigarette with a thoughtful look on her face. “About being the older sibling. Iris doesn't need you to protect her. Neither does Prompto, not really. They don't need you to be there to tell them what to do or to take care of them, yeah? That's your parents' job.” Gladio nodded slowly. Aranea smiled. “Your job... _our_ job,” she amended after a moment, “is to always be in their corner, even when no one else is. Because they're always in ours, aren't they?” 

Gladio nodded a lot more enthusiastically at that. 

“I get it, I think,” he said, and offered her a small smile. 

Aranea smirked and pressed a hand to his face, lightly shoving him back. 

“Good,” she said, and snickered when he glared at her. “Now get out of here before your mom sees you and starts lecturing me about smoking around you.” 

“You're so weird,” Gladio declared with a squint. 

“I can kick your sorry ass to the curb,” Aranea retorted, flexing her fingers and making lightning dance around her fingertips, just for effect, “so I'm entitled to be anything I damn well want.” 

Gladio yelped and ducked when she made as if to hit him, and then ran back inside, laughing echoing across the garden. 

Aranea took another drag of her cigarette, and figured that was as good as that loose end was going to get tied up. 

* * *

In the end, she didn't bring Luche along for the balls in honor of the King's birthday. 

She did, after all, consider the obnoxious jerk a friend, and friends did not do that to friends. Instead, she spent the four consecutive evenings standing idly within three feet of Cor. Cor was the best company one could hope for, during balls. Everyone was terrified of him and avoided him like the plague. It was the best. 

They enjoyed watching Nyx make increasingly desperate attempts to join them, as always blindsided by pestering nobles dragging him back into the center of the room and into conversations that couldn't possibly be fun, judging by the growing twitch to his shoulders. Eventually, the Oracle always came to save him, and then they would move to a different corner to talk or she'd smile and Nyx would lead her into the dance floor with overdone ceremony that never failed to make her laugh. 

“You should go dance with him,” Aranea told Cor, on the fourth night, watching Nyx and the Oracle whirl around in time with a Tenebraean waltz – and Aranea was privately apalled at herself, because she could tell the difference these days. 

Cor snorted. 

“No.” 

“Don't know how to dance?” Aranea teased, one eyebrow arched. 

“I do,” Cor sighed and took a small sip of his drink. When he realized Aranea was still staring at him expectantly, he shrugged. “He wouldn't appreciate it.” 

Aranea personally thought Nyx would, because Nyx was the ridiculous kind of romantic who would think that kind of gesture was sweet. But then she remembered that they were not alone, and she realized there were too many eyes scrutinizing him already, so she supposed Cor had a point. Nyx wasn't like them, after all. Nyx actually cared what others thought of him and actively took care of his image before the court. 

He was dumb like that. 

“You probably just have two left feet and don't want the world to know it,” she said instead, tilting her chin up challengingly when Cor arched an eyebrow at her. 

There was a moment of silence as he contemplated her expression, looking for... whatever it was, that made him sigh again. 

“Oh, very well,” he said, and drowned back the rest of his drink in one gulp. 

He didn't have two left feet. She had known he wouldn't, if only because he'd been critiquing her footwork for the past five years. 

Almost five years. 

“What do you think?” He asked her, as she rested her head on his shoulder and let him sway her along the music. “Scandal over the age difference or the technical incest?” 

“You're giving them way too much credit, if you think they'll research enough to figure out I'm your... ward,” Aranea snorted, and shared a smirk with him when he chuckled low in his throat, politely sidestepping her stumbling words. “But hey, we might actually break Nyx's streak on the front page.” 

“The things we do for love,” Cor deadpanned, and then twirled her around when she giggled. 

* * *

Aranea realized she owned a lot more crap than she'd originally thought and stared at her room with a critical eye. 

She could leave everything, if she had to, but she was a little annoyed to realize she didn't _want_ to. Half her clothes were things she'd bought on Crowe's insistence that they'd look good on her – and they did, and she liked them, even though she'd gone into it thinking she'd spend her days wearing the Kingsglaive uniform or some variation of it. And the other half were ridiculous, oversized shirts that she'd slowly stolen from Cor's closet, because he had the worst shirts and Nyx never failed to make tiny frustrated noises when he saw her wearing them, and Prompto had matching ones for most of them. 

But they were just clothes, and it was stupid to be hung up about it, because she'd never really given it much thought, before she'd come here. 

She was a mercenary. She was supposed to be able to live on the run, she didn't need that many clothes. It was stupid. 

She also didn't need the collection of trinkets on her desk, bits of origami that Prompto did sometimes and random shitty prizes from far too many trips to the arcade, babysitting the blond menace and his friends. They were deadweight, and it pissed her off to be offended at herself, for thinking of them like that. But that's what they were, things that weren't important enough to carry with her but that she still kind of wanted to because... 

Because they were nice things, the kind of nice things Biggs and Wedge had always wanted her to have, but that you just couldn't, not when you lived like they lived. 

The way she wanted to live. 

Because she wanted that, she did. She still wanted the lewd jokes by the fire and the booze running free after completing a job that should have killed them, but didn't. She wanted the rough edges and the plain brotherhood of trusting someone with your back without having to keep score. 

Life in Insomnia was... nice. Life with Cor and Nyx and Prompto and Crowe and Luche, it was nice. Really nice. 

But she knew she wasn't made for nice things, not really. 

Aranea ran her hands through her hair and sighed in frustration. She knew she should get on with packing. It was inevitable and looming and no matter how much she ignored it, it wasn't going away. 

She called Luche instead, and went to meet him, Tredd and Sonitus for another night of pool and beer and terrible jokes. 

* * *

“Have you talked to Cor?” Nyx asked, giving her an impressive frown. “About this?” 

Aranea rolled her eyes and ignored the way her stomach rolled on reflex. 

“I'm not a child,” she snorted, folding her arms over her chest and not caring one whit if it was defensive. “I don't need to ask permission to quit the Kingsglaive.” 

Nyx sighed. 

“That's not what I meant, and you know it,” he said, frowning at her as he placed her resignation letter on the desk. “Look, I just think you should... talk to him, before you commit to this.” 

Aranea thinned her lips. 

“There isn't anything to talk about,” she insisted, scowling. Then she smirked. “C'mon, you've been a good boss and a better sport about all the shit I've put you through, over the years. I appreciate that. But you'll be glad to get me out of your hair and-” 

“Stop that,” Nyx snapped irritably. “If you really want to know what I think about this, you-” 

“I don't!” Aranea snapped back, throwing her arms up in the air. “I really don't! You know why, Nyx? Because it doesn't matter. It's gonna happen and that's all there is to it.” 

He looked like he wanted to argue. Of course he did, Nyx Ulric could never stumble upon something he disagreed with, and not argue about it. Usually, she liked that. Usually. But not when he was arguing about things he didn't understand, and she did. 

“Stop making this personal,” she snarled before he could say something even dumber. “Cor and I made a deal. That's all.” 

“It fucking _is_ personal,” Nyx retorted, leaning on the desk to glare at her. “I think I'm entitled to an opinion when it comes to my goddamn dau-” 

“I made a deal,” Aranea interrupted before he said something he'd regret. “I gave my word. I'm not a soldier, Nyx, I'm a mercenary. I'm only as good as my word. I don't get to pick and choose and work around it, just because I don't like something!” 

“So you _don't_ want to leave,” he said, in that infuriatingly triumphant tone of his that made her want to stick her lance down his throat. 

“Augh, just fuck off!” Aranea said, rolling her eyes before she turned around and stomped out of his office without looking back. 

Dumbass. 

* * *

“You shouldn't fight with Dad,” Prompto told her, a few days later, as they sat on a swingset in the park. 

“Your dad shouldn't pick up fights with me then,” Aranea retorted, kicking the loose dirt beneath her boots. 

“I don't think that's how it works,” he said, frowning. 

“That implies anything is working at all,” Aranea snorted, shaking her head. “Don't sweat about it, okay? It's not a big deal.” 

“It's a big enough deal to upset you,” Prompto said, frowning. “Can I help?” 

She considered for a moment. She remembered her conversation with Gladio, after all. She wasn't that much of a hypocrite. Not about Prompto, anyway. Prompto was the kind of soft that she'd always been taught needed to be hardened to survive, but instead she wanted him to keep it. He was resilient, in his own way, anyway. Stubborn. He was clever and intuitive, and she wanted, more than anything, that he retained that impulse to be good natured about it, rather than anything else. No one had fucked him up, the way they had fucked her or his parents up. She wasn't going to be the one to do it, either, even if she knew, with that cynical certainty that Nyx hated and Cor understood, that someone would, one day. 

She reached a hand to pluck the braid out of his mouth with an amused little smirk. 

“It'll be fine,” she said, shrugging. “The only thing you can't ever fix is death, and once you're dead nothing else really needs fixing.” 

“Still don't want you to go,” he muttered after a moment. 

“I know.” 

He frowned. 

“You'll say goodbye first, though, won't you?” He gave her a squinty look, lips pursed in an expression that was purely _Nyx_ , and she didn't laugh only because he'd be pissed if she did. “Because it'd be rude if you left without saying goodbye.” 

“You'll know when I leave,” she promised, and reached a hand to ruffle his hair, “and you'll know how to get a hold of me, if you need me.” 

“It'd be easier if you didn't leave,” he insisted, with that sly grin of his that no one ever noticed, because he was just too good at being cute for his own good. 

“Obviously,” she snorted, “but we don't do what's easy.” 

“We do what's right, yeah,” he sighed. “Being a grownup sucks, Nea.” 

She laughed. 

“Yeah, it really fucking does.” 

* * *

Cor was avoiding her. 

Aranea only noticed because it made her avoiding him easier. At least when compared to Nyx. 

Nyx was definitely not avoiding her. 

She heaved a loud sigh and glared at the door. It was only a door. The door to Cor's study in the basement, but still. Just a door. She could deal with a door. She'd dealt with a good many doors in her time. She was a pro at handling doors. 

She still winced a bit, when she knocked, because the sound echoed and it felt, somehow, wrong to do so. 

There was a very long silence, which made her wonder if she'd miscalculated and Cor hadn't actually come home at all, but then she heard him clear his throat. 

“Come in.” 

Aranea took a deep breath, pushed the door open and managed a wry smile. 

“Hey.” 

Cor wasn't sitting behind the desk, as she'd expected. Instead he was sitting on the edge of it, glass of brandy in one hand and a very wry expression on his face. He looked about as thrilled about the upcoming conversation as she felt, which made her feel a little bit better about it, in a way. 

“Hey yourself,” he said, shrugging. He frowned a bit. “Ready?” 

Aranea burst out laughing as she closed the door behind her. 

“Not even a little,” she snorted and crossed the room to go slump into his arms. “Nyx is pissed at me.” 

Cor snorted. 

“Join the club,” he muttered dryly, chin resting on her forehead. He sighed. “He'll get over it. Eventually.” 

Aranea snorted and shifted so she was sitting next to him instead, feet bouncing lightly off the dark wood of the desk. 

“He loves you a lot,” she said, shrugging when Cor arched an eyebrow at her, “so yeah, probably.” 

Cor hummed in the back of his throat, but didn't say anything else. Aranea nodded, more to herself than to him, and licked her lips. 

“So!” She said after the silence thickened enough to be choking, which never happened, with Cor, and she hated that it did, now. “This is it, huh. Five years.” 

“Yeah,” he said, nodding slowly, and then, after a moment, passed the glass to her. “Didn't really feel them.” 

Aranea snorted into the rim. 

“That's because you're an old, old man,” she said, and leaned in to bump her shoulder against his arm. He still didn't budge. He never did, really. She was actually convinced at this point that he just couldn't. “Five years more, five years less, you wouldn't even notice.” She swallowed hard, turning the glass in her hands as she looked away from his stare. “ _I_ felt them.” 

“Ah.” 

They lapsed into quiet again, but it still wasn't the same comfortable kind they always had. Aranea figured it meant there were still things that had to be said, then, though she didn't appreciate the realization, because it echoed Nyx's insistence about it. And Nyx didn't get it. Not the way Cor did... hopefully did. 

“I have to do this,” she said, passing the glass back. “You get that, right? I have to...” 

“You don't know if you ever will, if you don't do it now,” Cor murmured, in that same knowing tone he did, whenever he was picking apart the insides of her head and making sense of them for her. 

“Something like that, yeah,” she said, and then gave him a side look as he took a sip from the glass. “You've done this before.” 

“When I was thirteen,” he said, leaning back to stare at the ceiling, “they kicked me out of the army, when they figured out I'd enrolled under a false name and an even falser age.” He smirked wryly when she snorted, and then leaned sideways to bump his arm against her shoulder. “I ended up in a refugee camp near Caem, running errands for hunters. About a year later, I heard a rumor about some ruins, in Taelpar Crag that had just been discovered. Supposedly there was some grand power hidden in the ruins, waiting to be taken and used to turn the tide of the war. But every man and woman who'd been sent there to claim it never came back, so the King ordered the ruins sealed instead.” 

“Of course you went in,” Aranea guessed, eyebrows arched. “Of course you did.” 

“I didn't have to,” Cor said, frowning. “I wasn't a soldier anymore, I wasn't wanted in the King's service. And anyway, the hunters there, they didn't really care, about all the things the army did. You were good in a fight, you were good, period. And I was very, very good in a fight. But still. I didn't have to go, and it was probably really stupid of me to go, considering no one had survived it yet. But it felt like a loose end, like something I should do, if nothing else. There were a lot of things I didn't like about the army, back then. Still don't. But I felt at home with soldiers. Even if I knew I'd come to feel at home with hunters too, if I had to. I felt like... I had to prove that I could do it, before I made a choice. That it was really a choice at all, and not just... let someone else decide what I should do with my life.” 

Aranea bit at the inside of her lip, nodding. That, she understood. Almost entirely too well, even. 

“What happened?” She asked, head tilted slightly to the side. 

“I went to Taelpar Crag,” Cor said, and stopped, as if gathering his thoughts. “I knew who I was, after I survived Taelpar Crag. So when the King offered to take me in, after that, I knew how to make that choice, without regretting it.” 

“I don't regret making a deal with you,” Aranea said quietly. “I don't regret... you know, this.” 

“But you didn't make that choice,” Cor pointed out, smile wry. “I made that choice for you. I can't keep making choices for you, as much as I'd want to, sometimes. Because you'll wake up one day and realize you're not living your life, you'd be living the life I think should be yours. And that's not fair.” 

“I want to go,” she said, and swallowed hard when she realized she meant it. “I also want you to tell me I shouldn't, so I have an excuse to not go.” She snorted, rubbing a hand on her forehead. “Nyx has done nothing but tell me I shouldn't, but that only makes me want to go more. But if you tell me not to... if you tell me not to, I won't.” 

“You know I won't do that,” Cor replied, and when his arm fell on her shoulders, she leaned against him, eyes half-lidded. “You can go. You can stay. You can come back, if it comes to that. But it has to be what you want.” 

And wasn't that the heart of the problem. 

“God, why does this have to be so hard?” She laughed, as she wrapped her arms around him, and kept on laughing lest it became something else entirely. 

“Because anything that's worthwhile,” Cor told her, pressing the words into the crown of her head, “always is.” 

* * *

“You're an idiot.” 

Nyx spluttered as she shoved him, hard. And unlike Cor, he stumbled. Aranea shoved him again, for good measure. 

“You're an _idiot_ ,” she insisted, and then wrapped her arms around him. “And you're always going to be an idiot, and I'll always be here to tell you that, because Cor's too damn besotted to call you out on it.” 

Nyx's arms fell easy around her back, as he curved around to hold her close. 

“You're my _daughter_ , I get to be an idiot about it as much as I fucking want.” 

Aranea snorted, and refused to let go. 

“I am,” she said, and felt the precise moment the words hit home, because the entirety of Nyx's spine creaked under her hands. “I didn't have to be, didn't really want to be, when I met you, but I am.” 

She pushed him away, stepping away to look at him in the eye, because this was hard enough already, and that's how she knew it needed to be done. 

“I'm going,” she said, taking a deep breath, “but I'm not leaving. I'm not... I'm not dead yet. I know you don't get it and I don't know how to explain it so you do, so I guess you're just gonna have to trust that I know what I'm doing.” 

“ _Do_ you know what you're doing?” Nyx asked, frowning, and she could see his fingers twitching, as if he were fighting off the urge to hug her again, which he probably was. 

Aranea laughed and offered an offensively wet smile. 

“Not even a little,” she admitted, “but you're my _dad_ and that's your job, isn't it? To believe in me?” 

“It's also my job to say what a terrible idea I think this is,” he replied, and raised a hand when she started to argue. “I get to say it, but that doesn't... that doesn't mean I'm not going to let you do it.” He pursed his lips into a thin line and he looked very old and very tired, enough to make a ghost of guilt tickle her insides. “If you're really sure, and you really need to do it.” 

Aranea smiled, and it wasn't getting any drier. 

“I am,” she said, licking her lips, “and I do.” 

She wondered if he was going to argue some more, but all he did was sigh. 

“Okay.” 

He really wasn't as sturdy as Cor, Aranea thought wryly, because he stumbled again, the moment she hugged him. He clung a lot more than Cor, too. But that was okay. 

It was okay. 

* * *

Prompto gave her a tiny paper dragon as a goodbye gift. He showed her how to fold it so she could put it in her pocket without fear of ruining it. It was red and ridiculous and she loved it and him. 

He also made a messaging chat group, for the four of them, and made it clear in no uncertain terms that she was meant to use it. 

She promised she would. 

She actually intended to keep that promise, too. 

After all, she was only ever as good as her word. 

...but maybe only after Nyx was done posting keysmash about the fact she might or might not have “forgotten” to tell Luche she was leaving. 

* * *


	15. year xii [nyx]

* * *

_year xii [nyx]_

* * *

Cor and Nyx walked out of the movie theather in profoundly pensive silence. For once, choosing the film to watch had not involved a two hour argument, as it was usually the case, because there was obviously only one thing they could possibly sit down and watch. Still, that shaved off half of the best part of their dates, which was exchanging bloodless witticisms and snarking until someone cracked up about it. They passed the various posters for _The Immortal Legend_ on their way out, and didn't even stop to snark about the fact they had given Clarus a goddamn _mohawk_ in the movie. 

It was the least offensive thing in the entire film, and that was saying something. 

“So that was a thing,” Nyx said, at long last, as they walked down the sidewalk towards the small café that sold little fluffy cookies that were sweet enough to pacify Cor and went down well enough with coffee to not give Nyx a sugar coma. “Wow.” 

Cor made a thoughtful, awkward noise in the back of his throat. 

“I mean,” Nyx went on, waving at the lady behind the counter with a wry smile. “Was... was literally any of that even remotely accurate?” 

Cor took a seat opposite Nyx, back against the wall in the corner that let him relax a little, because he had no blind spots into the room. Because Cor was that kind of paranoid and Nyx almost found it endearing. 

“...I _was_ born in March,” Cor said after a moment, frowning at the woodgrain of the table. 

Nyx blinked. 

“Were you?” 

Cor snorted. 

“No, not really,” Cor replied, lips twitching into a wry smile. “But it tells you something, that, doesn't it?” 

Nyx snickered. 

“Well, this is disappointing,” Nyx sighed dramatically, waiting for their order – which they hadn't ordered, but they'd been dropping by every Sunday for the past six years, barring missions and other nuisances, they didn't _have_ to order anymore – to arrive. “I don't know if I can handle the fact you're not really a suave yet honor bound warrior descendant of an ancient lost tribe of mystical what-have-you with profoundly, underlined _profoundly_ staggering anger management issues.” 

“I don't have anger management issues,” Cor deadpanned, “I have Monica.” 

“You do, you fucker,” Nyx snorted, shaking his head. “Which reminds me, this is your yearly reminder that Monica deserves a pay rise. This message was not at all sponsored by your second-in-command, who is loyal enough to not jump ship to the Kingsglaive no matter how much I try to sweeten the deal.” 

Cor snickered. 

“Duly noted,” he said, eyebrows arched. And then, “stop trying to steal my second-in-command, you have your own.” 

“...I'm telling Monica that you compared her to Luche,” Nyx retorted, one eyebrow arched. “I also notice the fact you don't deny being a suave and honor bound warrior descendant of an ancient lost tribe of mystical what-have-you.” 

“For all you know, I...” Cor began, almost solemnly, and then snorted, wrinkling his nose, “...yeah, I can't.” 

Nyx laughed and reached a hand to hold one of Cor's. 

“It's okay, I'll find a way around my disappointment, Marshal.” 

Cor gave him a fond, exhasperated look, and snorted when Nyx's grin remained easy on his face. The small stare war would have lasted longer, if not for their order arriving and forcing Nyx to let go of Cor's hand, so the plates could be placed between them. Nyx sobered up slowly, mirth fleeing his face reluctantly, to be replaced by a slight frown. 

“So, besides forever laughing at your shitty public image problem,” he began, and then snorted when Cor shrugged. 

“It's not a problem if I don't care about it,” Cor pointed out, one eyebrow arched tauntingly, “...though that was, admittedly, a spectacularly terrible movie. You'd think at least the effects would have been nice, because Astrals knows they didn't spend their budget on a writer.” There was a small pause. “Or actors.” 

“Oh, don't knock on the kid, he's cute!” Nyx snickered when Cor's expression turned flat and unamused. “That's my point, Cor. There were like... five seconds where I believed the deadpan. Those were some very hard earned five seconds, to sell deadpan with that face.” 

“I'm not going to dignify that with an answer,” Cor mused dryly, peering down at the cluster of sugar on his plate and trying to decide the best way to go about eating it. 

“Fair,” Nyx said, shaking his head. “But to my point-” 

“You have one?” 

Nyx kicked his ankle under the table. Cor snickered, waving his fork placatingly. 

“Take a bite, actually,” Nyx sighed, “I need you sugared up as much as possible for this.” 

“Because that's not ominous, of course,” Cor replied with a slight frown and, when Nyx merely arched his eyebrows at him, took a tentative bite out of his plate, almost reluctant. 

“I need you to try and cut me down,” Nyx said, frowning slightly. “An actual blow, mind, not the lovetaps you usually give me. I need you to hit me like you want me dead.” 

There was a moment of silence, during which Cor stared at him with a blank expression on his face, and then reached out for another bite of ornamented sugar. 

“No.” 

Nyx blinked as the silence lingered, clearly expecting a follow up to that. 

“You're not going to even ask me why?” 

Cor took care to lick his fork. 

“It doesn't matter why,” he said, and very consciously chose not to look at him in the eye, “it's not going to happen.” 

“It's important, Cor,” Nyx insisted, scowling. 

“I have no doubt,” Cor replied, and shrugged again.”It's still not happening.” 

“Can we just-” 

“Nyx,” Cor said, finally meeting the frustrated glare, “no.” 

* * *

“I take it from your expression that he didn't like the idea,” the King said, resting his chin in one hand and giving Nyx an almost pitying look. 

Nyx sank into his own chair and sighed. 

“That implies he even heard what the idea was,” he said, scowling. “He just said no, and that was that.” There was a small pause. “No, Your Majesty, you may not ask him on my behalf. He'll get pissed at you, on top of getting pissed at me.” 

“He's already going to be pissed at me,” Regis pointed out with a wry, little laugh, shaking his head, “the whole idea is mine, after all.” 

“Still, I'd rather he didn't get into a fight with you,” Nyx pointed out, and then smiled, “the big, surly git doesn't have that many friends, you know? I'd rather he didn't lose any on my account.” 

Regis hummed in the back of his throat, thoughtful, and said nothing for a while. They sat in comfortable silence, while Nyx marveled at it, because if someone had told him, ten years ago, that he'd one day feel comfortable enough to hang out in the King's personal office, he'd have laughed. A lot. 

And yet. 

“It could just be a matter of giving it more time, as well,” Regis said after a while, frowning at the papers on his desk in a way that made Nyx feel he was avoiding to look at him in the eye. 

“It's been _two years_ ,” Nyx pointed out, “two _whole_ years. I got cards congratulating me on not dying, and ugly flower vases on the anniversary, even, because my men are assholes like that.” 

Regis chuckled, shaking his head, because there was a possessive sort of affection to Nyx's voice that he couldn't really avoid when talking about the Kingsglaive. He'd dedicated his life to it, after all, to dragging it back up from the pit Glauca's betrayal had left it in, and he had torn it down only to build it back up again, as many times as necessary. They were his men, his people, the recipients of most of his hard work over the years. His only saving grace was the fact the King knew it and approved of it, at least. 

“There is a lot we don't know,” Regis admitted, slowly, carefully, trying to choose the right words even though he didn't know if those even existed. “About this kind of magic. It's... it's unique. Something no one had ever done before, so there is naturally many things we are not sure about, like it's consequences.” 

“You said it was stasis,” Nyx said, not accusingly, he would never dare to accuse his King of anything, but also with a flat edge to it. 

“It _feels_ like it,” Regis replied, frowning, “and in my experience stasis dissipates on its own, after given enough time... or with the kind of adrenaline-fueled push I proposed. Magic comes from personality, and a lot of the time, emotions are its main driving force.” 

“Which is all well and good, except Cor won't help with the push,” Nyx sighed, running a hand through his hair. 

“And he'll murder anyone who _would_ help,” Regis added, as if Nyx didn't know that, shaking his head, “yes.” 

Nyx sighed again, louder this time, and resisted the urge to swear. 

“More time it is,” he said, not very convinced, and shrugged in the face of the King's apologetic expression. 

“You _have_ time, Commander,” Regis said, in his best fatherly tones, which set like ice down Nyx's spine, “the war is _done_ , thanks in no small part to you. Give yourself the time to heal.” He paused, frowning, considering. “And do remember you are more than your magic. Magic was never the reason you gained the rank you have.” 

Nyx snorted acidly, bravely resisting the urge to slide down his seat, and felt like he was fifteen and getting chewed out by his commanding officer again. It was... a terribly Lucian thing to say, but he supposed if there was someone in the world who was meant, and indeed, entitled to be Lucian about things, was the bloody Lucian King. 

So Nyx didn't hold it against him. 

Much. 

“I know, I know,” Nyx said, and shook his head, “it's just... there, boiling under my skin and I just. I want it _out_.” 

Regis nodded sympathetically, but still, he said: 

“Give it time.” 

It wasn't like Nyx had a choice. 

* * *

“You realize we're going to have to talk about this,” Nyx said, leaning on the grocery cart as he watched Cor study a mountain of apples with a deceptively calm look on his face. “Eventually.” 

Cor was still pissed at him, for asking him to try and cut him down. Not that the great git had bothered to let him explain himself, of course. The really annoying thing about Cor being angry was that he was so _calm_ about it. Nyx would much rather if they could just... yell it out, properly. But Cor didn't yell – had never yelled at him, not even once, in twelve long years they'd known each other, despite all the shit Nyx had put him through – he got quiet, instead. He didn't slam doors or swear at him. It was just that look in his eyes, a mixture of annoyance and disappointment, and the way his mouth dipped sideways when he thought there was no one looking. 

“No,” Cor said, slowly filling up a plastic bag with the apples he'd chosen, “we are not, and we will not.” He tied up the bag and placed it on the cart, eyes only pausing to catch Nyx's stare for a fleeting moment, before he turned over to the next item in their grocery list. “The answer is still no.” 

Nyx took a moment to watch Cor lazily sift through oranges and very consciously did not sulk. 

“You're a dick,” he said, once they'd moved onto looking over meat, “did you know that?” 

That was usually Cor's cue to snipe back something snide and borderline meanspirited that invariably made Nyx snort. Instead Cor gave him a long, dry look and then went back to peering somberly at the various cuts neatly packaged in the display fridge. 

Nyx felt a little dickish, himself, despite the self-righteous slant of his own annoyance. 

* * *

“And I suppose you're not coming along for this one either,” Luche said, in that testy, annoyed tone of his. 

Nyx studied the sullen brat with a wry smile on his face – he wasn't much younger than him, really, but the older Nyx got the younger Luche felt, by comparison, though not enough that the thought of him and Aranea didn't set Nyx's teeth on edge whenever he stumbled upon it. Which would be why Nyx avoided thinking about it as much as possible, really, because otherwise he might end up murdering someone, possibly himself. 

Luche had grown gaunt, after Glauca's betrayal, sunken in as his world fell to pieces all around him. Nyx had sympathized, honestly, for all he'd never really had much love for the boy before, but he'd known better than to try and capitalize on that. Luche needed agency and his own footing, and Nyx had entertained himself, for more than a decade, coming up with new ways to let the stubborn brat figure out himself in the least self-destructive way he could. Luche was a personal victory, as far as Nyx was concerned, all chafed, misshapen bits of him, but not the kind of victory Nyx would dare crow about out loud. Luche was, first and foremost, his own victory, and while Nyx was proud of his own hand in helping the kid figure out his place in the world, he was keenly aware all credit should go to Luche himself. 

He wasn't a good kid, was the thing. He was a terrible, insufferable brat, matter of fact. Far too smart for his own good, all sharp edges and vicious habits; the sort that saw someone down and stopped to figure out how to give the parting shot, rather than how to hoist them back up. (But, and Nyx had to be fair, there were few and far in between that Luche cared about, and for those he bled himself dry at the drop of a hat, for no other reason than he could.) Luche was an asshole, and Nyx knew it. But he was loyal and he understood, despite it all, the difference between right and wrong. Luche had had his loyalty torn to pieces, and the fact he was still there, wearing the uniform and letting Nyx groom him to take command one day, it meant a lot more than all the niceties in the world combined. 

And Aranea liked him, of course, but Nyx didn't think about that, because then he'd have to think about other things, and he might end up murdering his second-in-command before he could properly break him into the job. 

“Nope,” Nyx replied, shrugging easily. “Not this one.” 

Luche huffed, nostrils flaring slightly, and turned to leave. He stopped at the door, however, and seemed to wrestle with himself for a moment, before turning to give Nyx a carefully indifferent look. 

“People are starting to whisper, you realize,” he said, flippant and careless, but he held the thick binders to his chest, almost like a shield. 

Always the shields, with Luche. 

“Are they now?” Nyx replied, feigning ignorance as he folded his arms and leaned his weight on them, looking nonchallant. 

“There are entire squads who've never seen you in the field, now,” Luche pointed out, eyes narrowed in a way that gave away his feelings, and Nyx thought to himself that he really needed to learn to lie better, if he had any hope of ever standing on his own before the King's council. “Entire squads, sir, gone from recruiting to deploying, with nothing but words from you.” 

“I see,” Nyx said, holding onto the pleasant expression, if only to balance out the blatant judgement in Luche's face. “And that's bad, you reckon.” 

“They joined the Kingsglaive because they're _Galahdian_ ,” Luche said, the corners of his lips twitching with a suppressed sneer. “Because it's not the Crownsguard, where some old Lucian fuck will send them out to die while he sits back and huddles behind the precious Wall.” There was a pause, as if Luche needed to gather aplomb to force himself to continue. “We tell them stories, of course. Of their Commander. Of the man who went toe to toe with the fucking Immortal and was right there when the Glacian died and the war ended.” Luche swallowed hard. “They've all heard the stories, sir.” 

“And you feel they shouldn't?” Nyx asked, and focused on keeping his voice even and his breathing steady, despite the hollow, empty feeling in his bones. 

“We all need stories,” Luche replied, and added, reluctantly, “and we all need heroes.” From the look on his face, the word tasted sour on his tongue, but he went on, as if to clear it away. “But you know better than most, that stories only do so much, when you're cold and tired and stuck in a shithole somewhere, scheduled to die for someone else's sake.” 

Nyx smiled a grimace, and felt the tattoos itch fiercely on his skin. 

“I see,” he said, at length, “I appreciate your candor, Lazarus.” 

“I don't like you,” Luche retorted, almost defensive, and shuffled under the weight of his jacket, looking painfully, awkwardly small in ways that fucked terribly with Nyx's head. “I've never had. Probably never will,” he admitted, like he always did, though some days Nyx felt that was Luche talking to himself, rather than to him. Luche shrugged, swallowing hard. “But they're really good stories, so I guess I'll just keep telling them... for all the good they'll do.” 

* * *

Nyx disliked Prompto's homeroom teacher. 

He was biased, he supposed, since he was used to Letho and her colleges looking after his kid. But now that Prompto had moved up to middle school, everything was new and different and not always in a good way. The new school was bigger, and so the ratio of Galahdian kids versus Lucian kids was skewed against them a lot more than it used to, back in elementary. It was further away too, from both the Citadel and their home, and over all their routines had had to change, to accommodate for the differences. There were a couple of unpleasant rumors floating about, too, but nothing concrete to take action on, and Nyx supposed that was a good reason for Prompto's teacher to not like him back, the fact he'd upfront asked about those rumors and made it clear he wasn't amused by them. 

It was still exhausting, though, the monthly parent nights and the conscious effort he made not to let Prompto see how annoyed he was about things, since the boy still had that new school year enthusiasm going for him. Nyx tried to focus on that, rather than the barely there sneer he'd seen, tugging at the corners of the teacher's mouth. 

Nyx walked into the house with a tired sigh, and found Cor sprawled in his usual corner of the couch, watching the evening news and drinking a beer. There was a quiet pause, as they stared at each other, before Cor offered a one armed shrug and took a swing of his drink, hooking his free arm along the backrest of the couch. Nyx relaxed minutely and dropped himself into that space, burying his face into the crook of Cor's neck. 

“I wouldn't get too comfortable yet,” Cor muttered wryly, even as he let his arm slide down to Nyx's shoulders, fingers digging into the precise spot behind his shoulder blades that released most of the tension caught up there,” if I were you.” 

Nyx braced himself, tension resetting immediately. 

“Dad!” Prompto called out from the garden, right on cue, and came rushing inside with a clatter of feet. “Can we keep it?” He asked, before Nyx could ask why the hell Cor had let him stay up so late on a school night. “ _Please?_ ” 

It, it turned out, was a small, squirming puppy. A small, squirming puppy with a collar stamped with a familiar swan motif, and a letter tucked somewhat awkwardly into it, that it refused to let anyone but Nyx take, since it was apparently meant for him in the first place. Nyx ended up sitting up with his back against Cor's side, Prompto balanced on one knee and small, incredibly smug-looking dog on the other, reading the pristine, curly lines of Sylva's daughter's handwritting. 

“It really likes me,” Prompto said, a pout tugging at his bottom lip as Nyx scanned the unnecessarily swirly letters inviting him to her birthday celebration. 

Nyx dropped a kiss on Prompto's forehead and sighed. 

“We'll talk about it later.” 

* * *

It was surprisingly easy to come up with a present for the little Princess. Nyx supposed it was to be expected, if one knew her mother and had spent a few years swapping stories with her, about unruly children and the parenting of. Prompto was sad they would not be keeping Pryna, Nyx could tell, but he was happy to know the puppy had an owner and a home. He had cheered up considerably when Nyx had offered to bring him along to meet said owner and make sure the puppy would be fine. Cor had given him a look, when he'd made that promise, and Nyx had ignored it, because it would be wise to wrap up their current spat before starting the next. 

It wasn't... it wasn't that he didn't trust Sylva or that he had anything against her children. Not really. But he'd avoided introducing Prompto directly to the Oracle and her family, for much the same reason he didn't actively offer to host play dates for the Prince or the Amicitia children – though he never declined them, when they came up, either: because they were royalty and Prompto wasn't, and they had grandiose destinies awaiting them, ready to twist them up the same way their parents had been twisted up, and Nyx wanted above all to spare his son the merciless knife that came with the realization that he wasn't just like them. Because Nyx was Galahdian, and so was his son, despite and in spite of all, and Nyx knew what it was like to be Galahdian in someone else's land. 

They didn't mean it, was the thing. They didn't even notice, most of the time. But it was there, festering, poisoning, bubbling up into a boil until it burst and it was far too late to fix it. And they wouldn't want to fix it, by then, because they were royalty, grown and groomed to be right at the cost of everyone else. Nyx liked them – Sylva and the King and Clarus and a whole lot more Lucians than he'd ever thought he'd like, when he first arrived to Insomnia – but that didn't make them less... well, _that_. 

He dealt with them, every day, their jokes and their carelessness and save very few he loved and trusted – Cor and Letho, mostly, and that was depressing in itself, really, to realize a decade and a half later, that was all he had to show for it, as far as Lucians he trusted enough to stop expecting them to shit on him without even meaning to – he knew all there was to do was grin and bear it. Grin and pretend it was nothing, that it didn't bite somewhere under his skin, made him want to bare his teeth and let them know exactly what it _felt_ like. He didn't want his son to learn that, but he had to, because he'd gone into the Storm and the Storm had singled him out, the same it had singled out all the others, and now there were beads hanging off his hair, tiny little reminders that they were _different_. 

Nyx fingered the hair pin – two silver crescent moons encrusted with tiny shiny stones framing the edges – and forced the snarl into a wry smile when he noticed the looks he kept getting for it, from both the anxious looking clerk and the scowling guard not too subtly standing by the doorway. 

“I'll take it,” he said, pretending to be oblivious to the squinting, “gift-wrapped, please.” 

Lunafreya loved it, and that was enough. She smiled, eyes bright, and slid it into her hair the moment it was out of the bag. She laughed and she smiled, bright like a star and warm like the promise of her mother's magic, and Prompto was pacified that Pryna had a truly loving home to return to. 

It was fine. 

* * *

“...I did not mean to offend you.” 

Nyx looked down on reflex, and then up, which was a novelty in itself. Ravus Nox Fleuret, all of twenty years and looking withdrawn and weirdly small as he always did, despite the impressive nearly seven feet he commanded, stared back at him. 

“You... haven't?” Nyx replied, almost on reflex, mystified by the miserable expression on that already miserable face. 

Ravus was... complicated, to put it politely. Nyx had heard the story of course, out of Sylva's own mouth, of how a very young boy had accidentally murdered a very dear servant in his own attempts to save her. It was a horrible burden for any one child to carry and Ravus carried it... poorly, though still as best he could. He hadn't been much younger than Nyx had been, when he'd killed his first man, but Nyx supposed there was something twisted and damning, in killing someone when you only wanted to save them. At least the people who'd screamed at him in his nightmares, those first few years, had been people he'd absolutely meant to kill exactly as painfully as he had. 

He was a good boy, despite it all, kind beneath the deadly quiet. And he adored his sister and his mother, though Nyx suspected, quite possibly at the expense of not caring about anyone else around him. Still, the boy could be doing much worse than he was – Nyx had seen it, during the war, and among his own men, too – and Nyx generally found him likable, beneath the not-quite arrogance he liked to parade about, in lieu of an actual personality. 

“Of course,” Ravus said, back stiff and still somehow managing to seem small, “only I find myself... wishing that our sparring sessions would resume as they were, before. I am aware, of course, that a man of your rank must have enough commitments to consume your time, I am not a child incapable of understanding such things. But still, I-” 

“You're doing the thing again,” Nyx said, grinning wryly as he interrupted, because Ravus had two very clearly delimited settings: stone cold quiet and endless roundabout rambling, with absolutely no in between. “You're meandering.” 

Ravus' pale face flushed slightly. 

“Apologies,” he muttered, very pointedly not looking at Nyx in the eye. 

“Nothing to apologize for,” Nyx said, lips twitching into an easy smile. “I'm not mad at you, and I do miss our sparring, too. Kept me on my toes, definitely.” Nyx licked his lips. “I just... haven't recovered properly, from the injury a while back.” 

“Mother said so,” Ravus confessed, with a guilty look on his eyes. “...but I didn't believe it. I thought... I thought it a polite lie, to spare my feelings.” 

Nyx considered his words carefully – he always did, with Ravus. Sylva was a friend and she worried about her son, with good reason. Even if Nyx hadn't liked the boy, and he did, in fact, like the boy quite a bit, he wouldn't do harm to a friend's child like that. 

“It's true,” Nyx said, smile turning wry, “I haven't recovered full use of my magic yet. It's not publicly known, for obvious reasons,” he added, in a hopefully conspiratory tone, just to drive home the point, “but I really wouldn't be much of a challenge for you, right now.” 

“Oh,” Ravus said, “I... understand.” 

Nyx sincerely doubted he did, but at least he no longer looked like someone had kicked his puppy. Literally. Nyx let his eyes trail off towards the other end of the garden, to where Lunafreya was showing off said puppy – puppies, plural at that, and he'd have to ask about that eventually, because it seemed like a weird Oracle-y thing to him, the whole messenger dogs deal – to Prompto and the Prince, and the Prince's by now well-established retinue. 

“...and there's nothing to do, to help you heal faster,” Ravus said after a moment, not quite a question, because Astrals knew the boy's brain just wasn't wired to simply ask things like a normal person would, “perhaps my mother... when I have... been reckless about my magic, my mother has always found a way to fix it. She holds you in such high esteem, after all, I don't doubt she would be willing...” 

“I'm sure she would be game to try,” Nyx replied, shrugging lightly. “But it's... different, this. My magic, you see, it's borrowed. It's not... mine, not the same way yours is. It comes from the King.” 

“Oh,” Ravus murmured, embarrassed again. 

“Yeah, so... the King said I should give it time,” Nyx went on, ignoring the fact the King said there was also an entirely different way to go about things, because Ravus was an awkward lamppost of a teenager trying very hard to be an adult and failing miserably at it, and so he didn't need to know the ins and outs of Nyx's latest spat with the love of his life. “So I'm giving it time.” 

“...and he didn't perchance say how much time would be required, of course,” Ravus added, with the pitifully hopeful tones of a lonely child that made Nyx realize exactly how much did Ravus think of their little sparring bouts. 

Ravus was blood of the Oracle, after all. The strength and magic he had been blessed with, as his inheritance, meant his paralyzing fear of hurting someone he shouldn't was more than just trauma-induced paranoia. The only reason he'd agreed to train with Nyx was because his mother vouched for him, and even so it had taken him months before he stopped trying to hold back and Nyx could actually try and teach him something. 

Nyx felt profoundly guilty to realize his obligation to the boy had sunk fairly deep into the list of his priorities, in the wake of his persistent stasis, and he felt about as miserable about it as Ravus himself had seemed to be, at the start of their conversation. 

“He didn't,” Nyx said, lips twitching downward at the corners of his mouth, just a little, “but rest assured, we'll resume as soon as I'm able.” 

“I would enjoy that,” Ravus said quietly, offering a small smile, “quite a bit.” 

Which was quite something, coming from Ravus. Nyx continued to feel like an unmitigated, heartless bastard. 

“In the meantime,” he said, swallowing hard, “would you consider sparring with someone else? If I, you know, recommended them for it?” 

Ravus licked his lips, expression a careful mixture of excitement and distress. 

“If you truly thought they would... raise to the occasion,” he said, surprisingly with far less reluctance than Nyx expected from him, “yes.” 

Ravus trusted him, clearly, and Nyx needed to do right by that trust. So there was another thing for Nyx to look into and feel guilty about. And then be mad about feeling guilty about, because the world did not stop turning just because he wanted it to. It was almost Lucian of him, to feel that way. 

And wasn't _that_ a bitch of a feeling. 

* * *

“You're not fine,” Cor pointed out calmly, without the decency to sound smug about it so at least Nyx could be mad about that. 

Nyx closed his eyes and bent his head forward, letting Cor's fingers dig into his scalp. 

“Are we talking about this now?” He asked, chin resting on the hollow of Cor's collarbones, eyes half-lidded. 

“If by this you mean the fact you're nowhere remotely close to fine, then yes,” Cor said, still infuriatingly calm, infuriatingly deadpan, and solid and warm beneath Nyx's weight. “If you mean that nonsense of yours, of me trying to kill you, the no, we're not, because the answer is no, will always be no, and as soon as I'm sure I won't actually get myself killed off for treason in the process, I'll be sure to tell Regis as much to his face.” 

Nyx huffed a breath and buried his face into Cor's chest. 

“Have you considered, oh gracious fucker, that those two things might be related?” 

Cor twisted his fingers around a braid, the motion familiar and comforting even if the tugging was not. Like the cousin twice removed from an old inside joke they didn't really remember anymore. 

“I have,” Cor said quietly, folding his free hand behind his head. “I've decided they're not.” 

“You've _decided_ they're not,” Nyx repeated, halfway incredulous, but mostly fighting the bubble of hysterical laughter somewhere under his ribs. Hysterical laughter tended to cheapen one's arguments and so Nyx tried to avoid it where he could. 

“Well, the alternative is they are,” Cor explained, lips twitching at the corner, wry and old and worn, and Nyx wondered how much of that wear was his own doing, and how much of it was mirrored on his own lips, his own soul. “But one of them is a non-negotiable fact and the implication is you'll never be fine again. So I'd rather not dwell on that.” 

“You're full of shit, did you know that?” Nyx snorted, and then leaned in to kiss him, giving into the urge, slow and steady, and they should be a work, both of them, they really should, but they needed to figure this out first, before it got out of hand. “This would be so much easier if you'd give me a reason to pick a fight with you.” 

Cor let out a soft breath, fingers tugging lightly at the braid, and then leaned in to return the kiss, entirely too languid and slow. 

“We don't do things the easy way,” he pointed out, breath ghosting Nyx's lips and eyes sharper than the half-lidded look would imply. 

Nyx considered carefully, the pros and the cons, the dos and the don'ts, and the whole mess of maybe stuck between his ears. He opened his mouth – to capitulate, to rage, to promise, to start over again – but then his phone rang, somewhere in the depths of the jacket left thrown on the back of a chair in the living room. He'd left it there, back before he realized Cor's invitation to chat ran more along the lines of skipping work entirely. The sixteen steps separating him from the phone seemed eternal, an insurmountable obstacle considering where he was and how much he never wanted to move ever again. Cor nudged him anyway. Nyx went, and looked back and offered a token scowl in the face of Cor's body sprawled gracelessly on the couch and the fact he could almost see the indents where he was meant to fit in. 

“Oh,” Nyx said, after he answered and listened to a decidedly unexpected voice across the line. “No, it's alright,” he replied, but his tone told Cor – and probably only Cor, at this point, which was something else for Nyx to consider about the conversation they were not having about the things they weren't talking about – that it was anything but. “I'll be there as soon as possible.” 

Cor stared at him, eyes shrewd, and didn't ask. Nyx almost wanted him to, but Cor had developed a habit, of late, of precisely not doing what Nyx wanted. 

“Apparently Prompto's in trouble,” Nyx explained, sliding the jacket on with a small frown,”not sure how he managed, since school's been on for... twenty minutes, tops. I'll go see what's up.” 

Cor sat up, taking with him the mirage of shelter Nyx almost wanted to fall into. 

“Should I...” 

“It's fine,” Nyx insisted, and repetition did make it easier to sound convincing, the more he said it, even though it never felt more like a skin-deep. He snorted. “Believe it or not, I can actually do this on my own. Why don't you stay here and decide a few more things, maybe then it'll all make sense, by the time I'm back.” 

The corner of Cor's lip twitched, but he nodded, reluctant. 

Nyx forced himself to not look back, as he left. 

* * *

“ _Shut the fuck up_ ,” Nyx said, voice full of command, and he was, all of a sudden, General Commander of the Kingsglaive, despite the untucked shirt and the open jacket hanging off his shoulders. 

The room fell into deadly, nervous quiet, as he rubbed his left hand over Prompto's head, fingering his hair and the uneven, messy spike at the nape of his neck. With his right hand, he pulled out the phone from his pocket and took his time dialing Cor's number one tap at the time, rather than swiping one on the speed dial. It gave him time to breathe. 

“I lied, after all,” Nyx said, voice calm like thin ice barely hiding a storm beneath, icy and frail just at the edges, “I do need you here, before I do something I'll regret.” 

He hung up after that, without letting Cor get a word in, and pinned the administrator with a look that telegraphed quite clearly that Prompto's dead grip on his belt was probably the only reason violence hadn't happened. 

Yet. 

In the terrified silence that followed that phone call, the sound of Prompto's sobbing echoed loud and yawning, and Nyx felt himself losing another shard of his soul to the bottomless rage churning in his gut. 

In Prompto's hands, a single, fraying braid slowly came apart. 

* * *


	16. year xii [cor]

* * *

_year xii [cor]_

* * *

Cor was not, despite what public gossip and common wisdom claimed, a foul tempered man. 

Oh, he had a temper, alright, but he doubted there was any man alive who didn't, under the right circumstances, feel what could only be described as rage. Everyone had limits, everyone had breaking points. He had surprisingly few, to be honest. He had a sense of humor too morbid to be offended or angered by most things. Nyx certainly got angry on his behalf over a lot of things Cor just frankly couldn't be arsed to care about, but he understood the concern behind the little outbursts exactly for what it was. 

He was, despite it all, human, and as such he did have his sore spots. And he did have a temper, rarely indulged as it was. He swallowed the gum before he turned off the car, licking the ghost of something sweet and fruity in his mouth, and told himself that was a solid improvement on just flat out grinding his teeth. 

“Take the car,” he told Nyx, when he ran into him, sitting at a bench by the entrance of the school's parking lot, Prompto curled into a tight, deadly quiet ball in his lap. 

“I brought my bike,” Nyx replied, in the hollow, empty tones of someone far too angry to be rational. 

“I know,” Cor said, offering the keys with a little shake, “take the car. I'll take your bike on the way out.” 

Nyx stared up at him for a moment. 

“But you hate my bike,” he said, even as he took the keys with one hand, the other steadfast against Prompto's back. 

Cor offered a very wry twitch of lips that almost qualified as a smile. 

“I'll figure something out.” 

Nyx stared a moment longer, considering. This was obviously a mistake, because it afforded Prompto enough time to look over his shoulder at Cor, expression absolutely miserable. 

“I'm sorry I got in trouble,” he said, voice tiny and strained with the weight of tears still stuck in his throat. “I didn't meant to.” 

Cor stared. 

Nyx stared. 

“You're not in trouble,” Cor said, when the silence lingered too long, and Nyx's expression started to darken again. 

Cor might be, though, as he watched Nyx wrap the boy up in his arms, clinging to him by Cor's best estimation, because the alternative was doing something very violent and probably unwise. Cor watched them go and licked his lips. _He_ didn't have a clingy twelve year old to keep his temper in check. He supposed he should at least try, and maybe appreciate the fact Nyx thought he had a better shot at this than he did, even though it was a well-known, well-proven fact that Nyx was objectively the better person of the two. 

He reminded himself, as he often did when about to embark on a task he found personally distasteful, that if it came to that, he could very well just kill everyone present and call it a day. Regis would be miffed obviously, but Cor reckoned he still had the longest running streak of consecutive days without an impromptu execution anyone who'd ever been named Voice of the King had ever had. His predecessor had gone an entire seven months, if he recalled correctly, at the height of the war, before Regis' father was forced to pull the wall back around Insomnia. Cor was rather proud of being halfway through his second decade without having to invoke Regis' name as a justification for his actions. 

As he always did, he was forced to accept that it wouldn't really solve anything, to give into temptation and put the fear of him in people... or more than that. This wasn't, after all, a battlefield like the sort he was used to navigating. These people had families and friends and a place in the world, and like a tapestry, if you pulled loose a string, the whole thing could unravel into ugliness. Cor let out another slow breath, lips twitching as he fiddled with the keys of Nyx's bike. 

He could do this. 

Probably. 

* * *

“I need a favor,” Cor said, leaning on Nyx's bike and defiantly smoking despite the no-smoking sign four feet to his left. 

“Hello, Cor,” Anemone replied, deadpan the sort of endless abyss Cor's best could only hope to one day achieve, “why yes, I'm fine, thank you kindly for asking.” There was a small pause. “...are you smoking?” 

“I'm a soldier, An,” Cor snorted, and very pointedly took a drag, “I have a very particular way of solving problems. You're the one who solves problems that... _shouldn't_ be solved that way.” 

“Yes,” Anemone said dubiously, “so does the mob, thank you for the hopefully favorable comparison.” 

Cor snorted again, louder this time. 

“The mob leaves bodies behind, Lady Amicitia,” he pointed out unhelpfully. “You do not.” 

“Do too,” Anemone retorted, fully in the spirit of being contrary, “I mean, if I'm asked nicely and provided due encouragement.” She paused, enough to hear Cor take another slow, steady drag. “...you're not even bothering to ask nicely, though. And if you must know, the difference is the mob signs their work, I don't have to.” She scoffed very lightly. “Though I sincerely doubt you're calling me to debate on the particulars of my methodology. What's this about, dear, really?” 

Cor took another drag and told her in as few curt sentences he could. She only needed the gist of it, really, she was good at filling in the blanks. So he was spared having to recount the precise level of viciousness in Prompto's homeroom teacher's voice, as she stared at Cor in the face and told him it was Prompto's own damn fault for playing with his hair when she'd told him to stop. He also didn't need to tell her that they hadn't actually recognized him, which despite the odds felt like the best outcome possible, because they weren't too afraid to show him exactly how they'd treated his son. 

Cor lit up another cigarette using the dying butt of the one he'd just finished, and then flung the remnants into the distance as he detailed the punishment for Prompto's insolence: two week suspension before another meeting whereupon they'd decide whether to expel him or not. Cor didn't tell Anemone that he'd soaked up the words and their scorn and then tilted his head in acknowledgment before he walked briskly out the door because the itch to reach for his sword had almost scared him. 

He was supposed to be more rational than this. That was the whole point of Nyx leaving him to deal with this. It turned out he wasn't. 

“Ah,” she said, after he was done. “Fuck.” 

Cor snorted a cloud of smoke out of his nose. 

“Pretty much.” 

“How many dead?” Anemone asked bluntly. 

Cor didn't laugh. He took another drag of his cigarette and stared at the wisps as they floated above his head. 

“None,” he muttered, voice perfectly even, “but I'm still on the premises, if that doesn't work for you.” 

There was silence on the line, deep, even breaths and the sound of a pen scratching on paper. 

“That works wonderfully as is,” Anemone said, voice light and airy, full of that gentle poison that only the very best at gaming the court could command into pleasantries at will. “Please throw that away, Cor.” 

Cor stared up at the sky, muted blue behind the flickering static of the wall. 

“Okay.” He dutifully dropped the lit cigarette to the ground and stubbed it with his foot. “And?” 

Anemone sighed. Terrible things always followed, when she did. Cor tucked the phone on his shoulder and dug around his pockets until he found one of those lollipops with a piece of gum stuck in the center that Monica dropped by the office whenever she caught a whiff of nicotine in the air. Cor stuck it into his mouth and cracked the hard candy in one bite, loud and clear. 

“I'll see what I can do,” Anemone said after a moment, “in the meantime, do go home and look after your family, please.” 

Cor rolled the mixture of candy and gum around his mouth, crunching sounds slow, methodical and weirdly soothing to his frayed nerves. Overall not as good as a hit of something objectively self-destructive, like a cigarette would be, but close enough. 

“Alright.” 

* * *

Cor parked Nyx's bike next to his car and took a moment to will his stomach to stop rolling. Part of it was the fact few things got him as nauseous as the combination of air and speed that came with motorcycles and the driving or riding of. He liked cars, solid and well-built and not likely to end up a colorful smear on a sidewalk at the smallest bump in the road. 

Nyx loved his bike, though. He'd bought it for himself, third thing he'd bought after undeadening himself, all those years ago – first had been dinner to celebrate the fact, and second had been another batch of green paint for Prompto's art project of the day – and he looked after it almost religiously. Cor joked, sometimes, when the weather was nice and Nyx was holed up in the garage, fiddling with it, that maybe it was time he should get a new one, and the look of outraged betrayal Nyx gave him for his trouble was always worth it. 

Today, however, his nausea was mostly rooted in the bottomless pit of rage set at a low simmer somewhere under his sternum, digging down into his stomach and making it twitch viciously every few minutes. He tasted bile in the back of his throat, and forced himself to swallow it back. It was done. It would be dealt with. And most importantly, he had more pressing matters to attend to. 

Still, he took long enough to plop a mint candy into his mouth, if only to keep up pretenses that he hadn't smoked half a carton before making up his mind to call Anemone in the first place. 

“How are you feeling?” Cor asked quietly, as he found Nyx sitting on the counter that divided the kitchen from the smaller table they ate most meals at, considering Nyx's jigsaw puzzles had a monopoly on the actual dining table. 

“Cried himself to sleep,” Nyx replied to an entirely different question, hands holding onto the edge of the marble, feet swinging just enough his heels were bouncing on the wooden doors of the cabinets. “He's... he's fine. He'll be fine.” 

Cor made his way over, to stand between Nyx's knees and reached out to cradle his head and pull it onto his shoulder, fingers near instinctively weaving beneath the braids. 

“I know Prompto's fine,” he murmured, feet planted firmly enough that when Nyx slumped into him, they didn't both end up sprawled on the floor. “You'd be with him if he weren't.” Cor smiled a half smile that Nyx couldn't see, when he felt arms wrapping around his shoulders, anchoring him in place. “How are _you_ feeling?” 

Nyx shuddered a laugh and tightened his hold, fingers digging into Cor's spine. 

“You know that sound a bandersnatch makes,” he said, voice low, “when you stab the fucker in the eye and then shoot lightning through the blade?” 

“No?” Cor snorted, if only because his method for killing bandersnatches was limited to hitting them really hard with his sword, until they stopped moving. 

Then again, that could apply to basically anything he'd ever had to kill in his life. He was decently good at it, at this point, and hadn't really run into anything that couldn't be dealt with that way. 

“That's how I feel,” Nyx said, and then pulled back enough to press his mouth to Cor's in a kiss that was more reassurance than anything else. “It's not the best feeling in the world, for reference.” 

“Well,” Cor said, lips twitching slightly, “that's one way of putting it, I suppose.” 

Nyx snorted, dropping his forehead onto Cor's shoulder. 

“How bad did it go?” He asked, fingers digging into Cor's back and then releasing their hold after a moment, as if he realized it was bruising. 

Cor considered telling him to hold on anyway. Instead he said: 

“...poorly.” 

“I'm sorry,” Nyx muttered, not looking up at him, but also don't pulling away, which was all Cor really cared about at the moment. “I should have stayed and... I don't know, offer moral support. Or something. I keep dumping all my problems on you and expecting them to fix them, it's dumb.” 

“I like fixing your problems,” Cor muttered wryly, chin hooked on Nyx's shoulder as he stared at the kitchen wall without really looking at it. “It was for the best, that you didn't stay. Then I'd have done the _second_ worst thing I could have done, and ended up with Monica arresting us sometime before lunch.” 

“Would be why I sent you instead of staying myself, yes,” Nyx said, the ghost of an angry snarl forcefully twisted into a snort coloring his voice. He tensed. “Wait, the _second_ worst thing you could have done?” 

Cor swallowed hard. 

“I did what you did,” he explained, wincing, “I went to someone I trust to be rational when I can't be.” He licked his lips. “Which... it's usually your job, I'll have you know, but given the circumstances... I asked An... Anemone to get involved.” 

Nyx pulled back to squint at him, sitting up the counter properly again. 

“Lady Amicitia?” The squint deepened when Cor merely nodded. “Why?” 

Cor shrugged carefully and buried his face into Nyx's chest. He didn't want to explain Anemone Amicitia, mostly because no one but Anemone Amicitia could hope to explain her and do her some semblance of justice. It was the kind of twisted, roundabout labyrinth of court politics that Nyx despised almost as much as Cor did, and Anemone herself made it a point to keep a low profile for a reason. Nyx had never been in a position to figure her out, and honestly, Cor was starting to regret the impulse to involve her if only to save him having to find out now. 

“She should be the one to explain it, I think,” he said, because it was the truth and because Nyx was clearly expecting him to say something. 

Nyx dropped his chin on Cor's head and sighed. 

“...fair, I suppose,” Nyx said, and sighed again. “You know, this morning I really thought the worst way to spend a day off with you would be picking a fight again.” 

“That's what you were planning on doing today?” Cor asked, not so much wry as hesitating, pulling back to look at him in the eye. 

“You're still mad at me,” Nyx pointed out, “for asking... that.” 

Cor licked his lips, considered lying and then, as usual, went for blunt truth anyway. 

“Yeah.” 

Nyx shook his head. 

“Then, if arguing my case counts as picking a fight, yeah, I was,” he said, grimacing a little. “I think it'll have to wait, though.” 

“I'd appreciate that,” Cor admitted, shrugging. 

“Truce it is, then,” Nyx replied, shrugging right back. “Man, it's not even ten and I want to break out the booze already.” 

“I mean, no one's died yet,” Cor said, expression carefully neutral. 

Nyx laughed. It was the kind of laugh that sat pointy and uncomfortable in Cor's gut. 

“Yeah, the yet is what's worrying me.” 

* * *

Anemone arrived sometime after noon, with Gladio, Iris and Jared in tow. 

Cor reckoned it was a good thing, considering all they'd done all day was sit around the couch: first Nyx and him, not really talking after their truce so much as trying to put the simmering rage to rest and not being terribly successful at it, and then when Prompto woke up a few hours later, and Cor let him curl up in his lap without a word. Prompto brightened slightly with the arrivals, though Cor wasn't entirely sure it was genuine happiness to see Gladio and his sister, or the fact he was expected to be and he didn't want to disappoint anyone. It was hard to tell, sometimes, when it came to Prompto. He was very good at being cheerful even when he didn't feel like it; he and Cor had spent many hours on the garden steps talking about it over the years. 

“Why don't we go downstairs to chat?” Anemone asked, in that soft, calm way of hers that betrayed nothing, smile firmly planted on her lips. “Jared can look after the children and handle lunch,” she said, and turned to the man at her right, almost inquisitively, like this too was a suggestion and not an order. Jared nodded profusely and bowed respectfully, so Anemone smiled at him and turned her eyes back to Nyx, because she knew damn well Cor would obey no matter what she told him to do, and because Nyx still didn't know how to read orders woven into her requests. “Sounds good?” 

“Okay?” Nyx replied, because Cor loved him, he really did, more than life itself, and still Nyx had no idea the inevitable mess they were about to walk into. 

Cor led them downstairs to his study, and went straight for the liquor cabinet, because Anemone had that look on her face, the one that was three quarters gracious manners and one solid quarter murderous intent. That ratio never bode well. She took a seat in front of Cor's desk, with Nyx next to her on the other available chair, so Cor did the sensible thing and sat on the desk itself, feet danging. He passed along the whiskey glasses, ignored Nyx's arched eyebrow about it, considering the hour, and braced himself for the worse. 

“Before we start,” Cor said, as Anemone took a sip of her drink and slumped very slightly in her seat, “Nyx would like to know what you do, An.” 

“You didn't tell him?” She asked, giving him an exasperated look. “You've been... oh, why do I bother.” 

“I like living,” Cor replied, one eyebrow arched, “so, no, I didn't.” 

“Of course you do, my dear,” Anemone sighed, shaking her head. She turned to look at Nyx, expression wry and features kind. “As for what I do, well, very simply put, I... facilitate solutions, if you will, to all sorts of problems. Every now and then a friend of mine will ask me to look into something and, well, I have many friends, and even more friends of friends. It all works out, in the end.” She shrugged delicately. “Sometimes it's little things, sometimes it's things not so little, but I have a knack for calling in favors and put them to good use.” 

“...so you're the mob, basically,” Nyx blurted out, one eyebrow arched dubiously. 

Cor snorted, privately delighted, as he always was, whenever Nyx gave away the fact he lived inside his head. 

“Apparently not, if only on a technicality,” he said, and chuckled when she reached a finger and poked his side reproachingly. “She doesn't autograph her work.” 

“The mob also has pure self-interest as a driving force, I like to think I do what I do for the good of all Insomnia,” she paused, and shrugged. “I like sleeping at night, thank you very much.” 

“Okay, you're the not-mob,” Nyx said, tilting his head to the side. “What's your expert not-mob opinion on this?” 

“Well, for starters I would like to thank you both for not committing a massacre on school grounds,” Anemone said, eyebrows arched. “That would have been a nightmare to spin into a positive light.” 

She did not say it would be impossible, though. Cor saw the expression on Nyx's face and knew he'd caught that hint. He shrugged lightly in the face of the questioning look Nyx threw his way. Over the years, Cor had tracked down Anemone's influence in the weirdest of things. He didn't think there were many things left that would surprise him, if she said she could do them. 

“You're the one who's always ragging on me if there happen to be civilian casualties of any kind,” Cor muttered sullenly, shrugging when Anemone shook her head at him. “Bad for morale, right?” 

“But excellent for the drycleaners, yes,” she deadpanned back, and Nyx tried and failed to swallow back a sharp bark of laughter. Anemone smiled wryly at him and sobered. “It's a mess, really. It's a sprawling mess and doing damage control is going to take the better part of my afternoons in the foreseeable future.” She gave Nyx a look. “You're Galahdian, and of course your son is Galahdian. That makes this a mess inside a disaster wrapped up in a dumpster on fire, but I'm not one to run away from a challenge, and I get the feeling neither are you.” 

Nyx laughed, an ugly, brittle sound, and Cor hooked a foot on one of Nyx's knees, like the touch alone could hope to hold back the violence still boiling beneath his skin. Like he wasn't hanging off that edge himself. 

“I'm not,” Nyx said, voice surprisingly even, and twirled the whiskey in his glass slowly, calculative. “What do we do?” 

“After you left,” Anemone said, carefully pleasant, “someone filed a formal inquiry with child services in regards to Prompto's home situation.” She licked her lips and waited, while they slowly released air through their teeth. “I know for a fact the office is currently understaffed and well... things get unfortunately misfiled every now and then. It's just the nature of bureaucracy,” she gave Nyx a pointed look, considering his personal history with Insomnia's nigh impenetrable bureaucracy. “But from what I've heard, it will get filed again, and again, until it sticks and an official investigation is conducted. It's a teacher's duty, you understand, to report anything... concerning about their students' situation at home and I've heard this particular individual is rather... overzealous on the matter. And of course, during an investigation, children are placed with foster homes, since these are usually about abuse and they need to be protected from potential retaliation.” 

Nyx's hand found one of Cor's, fingers clenching tight enough to hurt. 

“An,” Cor said, and nothing else, because he was pretty sure the look on his face said enough as it was. 

“I have no intentions of letting them take your son away, even for a moment,” Anemone said, calm and even, steel gleaming sharp in her tone. “But I do think letting the investigation run its course is the best thing we could do. Both on a petty, personal scale, but... but this is significant, politically speaking.” She nodded at Nyx. “Because you're Galahdian.” 

Nyx stared at her for a moment, face blank, before he scowled irritably. Cor squeezed his hand, but didn't really manage to distract him. 

“ _You're_ the one behind the regional talks,” Nyx said accusingly, looking annoyed. 

“It's the best thing that could happen to your people,” Anemone said, frowning right back. “There's not enough of you left to exercise full autonomy, reclassifying Galahd as a formal region of the kingdom would instantly close most of the ridiculous legal loopholes being exploited to abuse you.” 

Cor gave up pretenses and quietly knocked back his drink, because clearly everything had gone to shit in record time. 

“Galahd has been autonomous since Lucis was first founded,” Nyx snarled back, “it's the cornerstone of our relationship with the throne. We serve the King, but we don't belong to him. We belong to no one but ourselves.” 

“And it worked fantastically when you had resources, man power and _territory_ to exercise that freedom,” Anemone said, flat and factual, and Cor tightened his grip on Nyx's hand when he felt his body start vibrating with repressed violence, “but it's been nearly twenty years, Nyx, you can't be refugees and exiles forever. You are Crown Citizens, it's about damn time that you're treated as such.” 

“So what,” Nyx said, through gritted teeth, “you'll protect my son and all I have to do is support treason to my people?” 

“I'm going to protect your son,” Anemone said, enunciating very clearly, voice the precise same pitch and timbre as Regis' when he tore down the Council for the sake of reminding them who sat on the goddamn throne, “because it's the right thing to do. And I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure no child is treated like that ever again, because _it's the right thing to do_.”She snorted. “Your cooperation would be ideal, but it's hardly a requirement at this point.” 

“ _An_ ,” Cor said, again, warningly, because he wasn't entirely sure Nyx wasn't about to let loose and the last thing he needed was her unsheathing her claws in full. 

“I suggest you send Prompto to Cid,” she said, tilting her chin back, and even so, commanding without issuing a single order. “No one will touch him outside the Wall, no matter how overzealous or driven they might be.” Anemone smiled. It was a very kind, very teethless smile. Cor knew those were always the worst. “The inquiry will take four or five weeks, at the end of which one, but hopefully more, very despicable human beings will be unanimously blacklisted and dismissed from the education system, no one will harbor any pretensions of removing your son from your care ever again, and I might have one real, solid example of the law doing its goddamn job, to try and leverage further conversations about Galahd's status, relative to the Crown.” 

“Yay,” Nyx hissed venomously, “everyone wins.” 

“Don't take it personally, love,” Anemone said, smile oddly self-deprecating, “I've been doing this for a very, very long time.” 

* * *

Letho winced when Nyx shared the news with her. 

“...I know it's not what you want to hear,” she said, staring down at her coffee with a morose expression on her face, “but she's probably right, you know? About going through the inquiry instead of trying to avoid it. You're good parents, it can't hurt to have it recognized in the official record somewhere. Just... for future reference. Unless there's like... material evidence of abuse, no one's going to bother launching a second inquiry if you come out of the first one as squeaky clean as you will.” 

“You sound very sure about that,” Nyx muttered snidely, “that it'll go well.” 

Cor winced when Letho snorted. Nyx had no love for the ins and outs of Insomnia's paperwork labyrinths, and as he'd told him more than once, he sincerely believed the system only worked so long as you'd been born into it. Which he hadn't. And to be honest, Cor knew the bias was not unfounded. His own nudges on the matter always ended up uncovering a new round of loopholes being abused for the sake of treating Galahdians as second class citizens wherever possible. He found it infuriating, he couldn't hope to articulate how Nyx himself felt about it. 

“Well, they have nothing on you,” Letho pointed out, “you've never laid a finger on him. You're a stable, solid couple. And the fact you both have rank and means to go with them doesn't hurt either. I mean, you're terrifying,” she told Cor, smiling wryly, “but you're terrifying enough I think they'll rather skirt away from it than consider it a bad thing.” Letho shook her head. “You'll be fine. It's that idiot who should be quaking in her boots about right now. Depending on what you're aiming for, you could get a lot of people fired, if you nudge the investigation that way. Because the whole point is to determine who, if anyone, is abusing Prompto and assault definitely counts.” 

“What do you mean what we're aiming for?” Cor asked, frowning. 

“Well,” Letho blinked, “the obvious thing is, do you want Prompto to go back to school there?” 

“No,” Cor snorted, though unfortunately at the same time Nyx hissed: “Yes.” 

Letho blinked again and winced as they gave each other surprised stares. 

“Okay, step one would be to figure that one out,” she pointed out with a sigh. “then we can figure out the actual... inqury-ish bits.” She smiled wryly. “No shadowy ladies involved.” 

It was easier said than done. 

* * *

“...you're not sending me to Cid forever,” Prompto said, out of the blue, one hand holding Cor's, and the other holding a slowly melting slushie. “You're not sending me away because you're angry at me.” 

Despite his best attempts to sound certain, there was a questioning tilt to the words that sat heavy and sharp in Cor's gut, right next to the unbearable weight of Nyx's silence since Anemone's departure. Nyx was never quiet, when he was angry. That was Cor's thing. Nyx spluttered and hissed and spat and clawed out the eyes of anyone who pissed him off. His anger was always upfront and vicious and terrifyingly self-controlled. Cor admired that, in Nyx, that internal sense of fairness that didn't let him give in to the impulse to burn something to the ground just for the sake of making himself feel better. Nyx always kept a scrupulous tab of slights, and kept grudges until he could balance them out with careful, precise measurements of spite. For Cor, whose first reaction to a slight was to get even and then keep getting even until he'd made the point that he should not be slighted, ever, the notion of restrained pettiness was borderline incomprehensible. 

But then, Nyx was a better man than he was; he was fair well past the point it was expected of him, because spite itself fueled his fairness. 

“No,” Cor said, slow and purposeful, and waited until Prompto looked up to continue, “we're not.” 

Prompto stared up at him, blue eyes nearly purple in the late afternoon sun, and then blinked once, twice, and nodded to himself. 

“Thought so,” he said, voice a sliver brighter than before, but didn't elaborate. 

Cor debated for a moment, and frowned. 

“Why do you ask?” 

Prompto stared at the storefronts they walked past and didn't answer immediately, merely biting at his bottom lip. Cor waited, in as best an approximation to patient as he could get. It seemed to be good enough for Prompto, anyway, and that was what mattered. 

“Scilpio was being mean,” he said after a moment, “but then Micah got angry and a fight broke out.” He scowled for a moment and then looked up at Cor. “Why is everyone fighting about me?” 

And Cor heard: _what did I do wrong?_

“It's not...” Cor began, and stopped, just as Prompto gave him a wounded, betrayed look, and he realized he was about to lie. “...because what happened to you was unfair,” Cor said instead, “and it's hard to figure out how to make sure it never happens again.” 

“I shouldn't have kicked Miss Lecter,” Prompto whispered, tightening his grip on Cor's fingers and leaning closer. 

“Prompto.” 

“She wasn't really angry until I did that,” Prompto went on, miserable, and worried his bottom lip as he stared at his shoes. “I should have-” 

“You did the right thing,” Cor said sharply, with an air of finality that was tinted with enough disdain to make Prompto's shoulders hunch forward. 

“But-” 

Cor stopped and looked down at him intently. When Prompto wouldn't meet his eyes, though, he dropped down to one knee, until he was eye-level with him. He was short for a boy his age. Short and soft and entirely too easy a target, and Cor knew it and Nyx knew it, and the best they could do was watch out for it and try to say the right thing. It was harder than it sounded. 

“ _She_ fucked up, not you,” Cor said bluntly, lips twitching slightly when Prompto swallowed back a nervous giggle. “We're not angry at you.” 

Prompto pursed his lips, and it was such a Nyx expression, Cor felt something delicate crack beneath his ribs. 

“But you _are_ angry,” he pointed out, because he was sharp and intuitive in the best worst ways. 

Cor let out a sigh and stood up, not bothering to dust his knees. He nudged Prompto to start walking again. 

“Yes.” 

Prompto hummed, leaning closer, staring at his feet and trying to match Cor's stride with his own. Cor shortened his steps as best he could, without making it obvious he was doing it. 

“Are you angry at dad?” 

Prompto was still staring at his shoes. Cor still felt the weight of his eyes on him, daring him to lie. 

“...sort of,” he said, because that was generally accurate and mostly true. It was hard to be angry at Nyx when he'd ended up fucking up worse and they had bigger, more important things to worry about. “We'll figure it out.” 

At least, Cor hoped so. He was trying, mostly. 

“This is why we should have a puppy,” Prompto pointed out in his best sagely tone, taking a moment to slurp noisily from his cup. 

Cor snorted. 

“...do tell.” 

“It's literally impossible to be angry within a ten mile radius of a cute puppy,” Prompto announced with the air of a well-learned expert on the matter. “Harit says it's scientific fact.” 

“Oh, well, if it has Harit's seal of approval,” Cor said dryly, and felt the knotted muscles of his back to start loosening up at long last when Prompto giggled in delight. 

“It doesn't have to be a fancy puppy,” Prompto went on, chewing on the straw in between drinks, “I mean, all puppies are cute enough it'd work. I think.” 

* * *

“...and somehow you ended up buying him a cat?” Nyx asked, staring at Cor with a mixture of exasperation and disbelief. 

Cor shrugged eloquently. 

“Technically, it was a rescue from a shelter,” he said, trying for humor but not really reaching the right note. “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he added, shrugging again, more... more tired this time. “To distract him, since...” 

Since tomorrow – the yawning, terrifying tidal wave of unknown that was tomorrow – they were driving him out to Hammerhead. Anemone had sent word they could expect news about the inquiry to reach them the following week, and after a terse conversation where upon Cor did most of the talking and Nyx ground his teeth and tried not to snap back at him with only mild success, they'd agreed the sooner Prompto was safe under Cid's care, the better. 

“You sure Cid won't be mad about it?” Nyx asked instead of any number of things he could have said, and Cor almost wished he'd said them, if only because maybe some of the tension keeping him strung up like a wire would loosen up. “I mean, we already sprung this on him on short notice and-” 

“It'll be fine,” Cor said, and he sounded almost like he believed it. And then, because he was a self-destructive idiot who couldn't not fuck shit up even when he tried, he added: “We can... talk things out, once Prompto's safe.” 

“Things,” Nyx deadpanned, sharp and brittle, and somewhere under his sternum, Cor _ached_. 

“Just the whole bloody clusterfuck of it,” he said, lips trying and failing to twitch into a good enough approximation of a smile. It felt more like a snarl, to be honest. “We should figure it out.” 

“Yeah, we should,” Nyx said, running a hand over his hair. “If you're actually up for it, this time around.” 

Which was fair. Cor wasn't entirely lacking in self-awareness. He either dealt with things or didn't, there was literally no middle ground. He still winced anyway. 

“Not really,” he said, because it was the truth, and he was tired and still angry and honestly all he wanted was to maybe hide inside Nyx's bones for a year or twenty, until the world collectively agreed to stop being shit. “But the usual MO of ignoring the problem until it stops being a problem isn't exactly working out great, either.” 

He'd meant it as a joke, meanspirited and at his own expense, but when he reached a hand to finger Nyx's hair, Nyx pointedly dodged the touch. Cor let his hand drop after a moment, lest the moment hung on too long, awkward and painful like the air that wasn't really sinking properly in his lungs. 

“Shocking, isn't it.” 

Cor didn't have anything to say that didn't feel like it'd make it worse, so he said nothing at all. 

* * *

“Why do you have to be such a fucking _asshole_?” Nyx groused darkly, throwing down his cards on the table in disgust. 

Cor pursed his lips, after a full evening of snippy, increasingly testy remarks, and deadpanned: 

“Well, you are what you eat.” 

Then Libertus sprayed his beer all over the table and Cor realized he'd actually said that out loud. 

Nyx flushed, though not nearly as much as Pelna, who buried his face in his hands and seemed to be trying to will himself to spontaneously disappear. Amira patted his back awkwardly and very politely did not look at either of them in the eye. 

“And we're done for the night, yes,” Crowe snorted, shaking her head in despair. 

Cor shrugged and wondered if the bead hanging off the scabbard of his sword meant Ramuh liked him enough to maybe smite him where he sat, and maybe keep him from making everything worse basically _always_. 

* * *

“Tell me you didn't know.” 

Nyx found him sitting on the edge of Prompto's bed, staring at the ugly cactuar rug and trying not to let his spine snap under the emptiness of the house. 

“What.” 

Nyx leaned on the door frame, arms folded over his chest. 

“Tell me you didn't know Anemone was going to use this to try and play politics with it,” he said, and out of all the things Cor expected him to open with, that wasn't it. It threw him out of sync, more than he already was. 

And then he realized why Nyx was fixated on that, and he felt every hair in his body stand on end. He felt a keen desire to be sick all over himself, because he was an _idiot_. 

“Nyx,” he began, standing up slowly, and stopped because he didn't know how to put to words the icy dread crusting up his windpipe. 

“Tell me she's your friend and you love her and you went to her for help because that's what friends _do_ ,” Nyx said, hoarse, “tell me you were thinking of Prompto and not her, when you made that call.” 

Cor swallowed hard. 

“I knew she was going to find an angle,” he muttered, shrugging helplessly. “That's what Anemone _does_. She finds angles and skins her enemies alive with them, and she's so good at it, they come back and thank her for it, when she's done. If they even know she was the one who did it. I wasn't-” 

“Tell me you're in my corner,” Nyx said, teeth grinding. “I've always assumed you are, but _I need you in my corner_ , Cor. I can't... I can't do this, if you aren't.” 

Cor opened his mouth to say so, and instead what came out, blunt and reckless and crystal clear, was: 

“Do you want to leave?” Nyx stared at him like he'd grown a second head, and kept on staring, when he added: “Do you want to tell them all to fuck off and just... go? We can go.” 

“Where the hell could we even go?” Nyx asked, because he was pragmatical and rational and so much better at keeping his feet planted on solid ground, than Cor would ever hope to be. 

“Anywhere you want,” Cor said, weirdly weightless with the sheer truth behind the words. “Hell, we'll go to Galahd if you want.” 

“Galahd is a shithole, Cor,” Nyx replied, still staring incredulously at him. He snorted acidly. “Besides, the King-” 

“ _Fuck the King_ ,” Cor snapped, and felt eerily relieved to say so, and inwardly terrified by how much he meant it. “Fuck Insomnia. Fuck the entirety of Lucis. I'd go to _Gralea_ if that's what you wanted.” 

Nyx pushed himself upright and gave the three steps required to reach out and hold Cor's face in his hands. 

“You mean that,” he whispered, and he looked tired and worn and Cor hated everything and everyone who'd ever chipped away at him. 

Mostly he hated himself, because he knew he'd done a good deal of chipping, even without meaning to. He leaned in to press his forehead against Nyx's. 

“Say the word,” he whispered right back, reaching up to hold Nyx's hand in his own. “And we'll go.” 

Nyx swallowed hard. It was a thunderous sound, against the quiet inside Cor's head. 

“What if I want to stay?” He asked, eyes half lidded. “'cause I'm stubborn and reckless and full of spite. What I want to fight to the bitter end?” 

Cor took a deep breath. Then another. Then he forced himself back into the confines of his own skin. 

“Then we stay.” 

Nyx leaned in to press his lips to the corner of Cor's mouth. 

“And we fight.” 

Cor closed his eyes and buried his face into the crook of Nyx's neck. 

“And we fight.” 

* * *

The inquiry was tedious, more than anything. 

There was huffing and puffing about the fact Prompto wasn't in Insomnia, but not nearly as much as they thought they should be. Anemone's hand was all over it, in that subtle, quiet way of hers that Cor had long learned to know and respect. Nyx didn't entirely relax, even when the tide began to turn, slow and steady, and instead reached out to hold Cor's hand sometimes, when his jaw set and his temper started fraying at the edges. Cor linked their fingers together and tried not to think about the enormity of his entire world having changed axis while he wasn't looking. 

He'd meant what he'd said, was the thing. He always meant what he said and said only what he really meant. Life was give and take, and every tiny thing came with a little price tag attached. He'd always known. He'd always measured what he wanted against the weight of what it'd cost him to get it, so when it came down to fighting for it, he knew exactly what he was fighting for. At some point the balance had shifted. At some point, his family became something that superseded his loyalty to his King, his place in the world. 

So Cor did what he always did, when he reached that Rubicon. 

He stopped trying to avoid the unpleasantness and stood his ground. 

“When's Prompto coming back?” Noctis asked him, frowning thoughtfully at the ice-cream in his hand. 

Cor was meant to be watching him. But it was a lovely afternoon and the Prince was bored, and he never knew how to say no to him, so they were out in a park somewhere in the depths of Insomnia, eating ice-cream and watching people walk by. 

“Soon,” Cor said, because it was the truth. 

“Good,” Noctis replied, nodding to himself. “I haven't seen him in forever. He promised to come with me, to the fishing hole. He said he was going to take pictures.” He paused. “You'll let him, right? He's not in trouble or anything, right?” 

Cor smiled thinly and licked the sticky, melting mess off his knuckles. 

“No, he's not.” 

“Good,” Noctis said, nodding again, tiny frown dipping his eyebrows in an eerie echo of his father. “Good.” 

Cor thought so, too. 

* * *

Cor wasn't really surprised to find Aranea in Hammerhead. Neither was Nyx, really. They still stumbled a little, from her attempts to hug them both at once, which felt more like a just barely modified tackle. 

“You're both so _stupid_ ,” she said, “so, so fucking stupid.” 

“I've missed you too,” Nyx replied, expression wry. 

“I haven't,” Aranea said, bratty and contrary just like always, despite the fact she had an arm around each, tugging them toward the garage like she own the place. “At all. Because you're _stupid_.” 

“Dad!” Prompto cried out, the moment they reached the door, “Cor!” 

He was covered in grease and dirt and he was beaming hard enough it hurt. 

The moment Nyx passed him over to him, the moment he settled his weight in a crook of an arm, Cor made peace with the fact avoidance wasn't going to cut it anymore. He was okay with that. 

* * *

“Once,” Cor said, standing in the purplish light of the early morning, sword held loosely in one hand as he stared at Nyx with a scowl. “Just once.” 

“Once should be enough,” Nyx said, stance relaxed and loose in direct contrast with the drawn up way Cor's shoulders sat on his back. 

Cor took a deep breath and released it slowly. In the distance, they could hear daemons scurrying away from the light. Cor ignored them, fingers twitching around the hilt of his sword, trying to find the familiar place along the grip and not quite managing. 

“Okay,” he said, because it'd have to do, and then took the swing before he could think about what he was doing. 

He expected – hoped, desperately, drunk on dread – to hit air. That'd mean Nyx had dodged, which was what was supposed to happen in the first place. Instead the blade caught against something solid and unyielding, and Cor stared at the shield, tiny interlocking hexagons made out of glimmering light. Nyx's eyes seem to glow as he held Cor's stare, and then dispelled the barrier just as Cor let go of his sword, sending it back into the void. He turned and thew a hand forward, motion fluid and relaxed, and a storm of lightning crackled from his arm and roared out into the distance, leaving a scorched trail on the ground. 

“You were meant to dodge that,” Cor hissed, hands shaking as he reached out to pull Nyx close enough to snarl in his face, or kiss him. 

Nyx tilted his head sideways and then pressed up, lips brushing Cor's tauntingly. 

“Felt too much like running away,” Nyx whispered, and then laughed when Cor leaned in and kissed him harder. “We're done running away, after all.” 

“Never again,” Cor told him, giving up pretenses and just holding onto him until it felt like really was going to slide under Nyx's skin and just burrow in there forever. “You understand? _Never again_.” 

Nyx pulled him in, trailed his mouth along the side of his face, lips a brushstroke of a smile as he kissed the crown of Cor's head. 

“Never again.” 

* * *

There was still the matter of Prompto and school, however. 

Whether he should stay and fight, or leave and start anew elsewhere. It was a stale argument, by then, even if they each had their reasons to feel the way they did. 

So they asked him what he wanted, instead. 

* * *

“There was a vote today,” Nyx told Cor, coming to sit next to him on the steps. “About renouncing autonomy.” 

He leaned in to hook his chin on Cor's shoulder, eyes half-lidded and expression oddly wry. 

“...and?” Cor asked, when he didn't say anything else, licking his lips with a ghost of nerves. 

“Autonomy won by a landslide,” Nyx replied, lips twitching. “They said there wasn't any proof, you know? That the law would be fair. No concrete examples, just pure speculation.” 

Cor closed his eyes and let out a sigh, chin resting against Nyx's head. 

“Iris and gladiolus,” he said, snorting. “Those are her favorite flowers.” 

Nyx laughed. 

“Of course they are.” 

* * *


	17. year xiii

* * *

_year xiii_

* * *

Once a month, but only if he'd been good and he'd finished both chores and homework, Prompto was allowed to spend the weekend at Harit and Scilpo's place. 

It was his favorite weekend of the month, because their dad would teach them tricks and games, fingers wiggling and moving almost too fast to be seen, and their mom would make food that was spicy in the tasty kind of way, not just senselessly hot like some of Prompto's favorite snacks, but instead the kind that sat warm and comfortable in his belly after he was done eating. And then Harit would put on a movie about weird, wild animals beyond the wall, and Scilpo would bring out cards and they'd bet beans and marbles in lieu of their allowance. And later still, much later still, they'd fall asleep under the covers, sharing spooky stories that always ended up with Prompto trying to hide inside Harit's shirt, because Scilpo always knew how to make him squirm. 

Prompto missed them keenly, enough that sometimes he regretted telling his parents he didn't want to go back to school with them. His hair was growing again, a little lopsided, maybe, but he'd been able to braid the bead back in place by then. And he missed his friends, nearly his brothers, to sit with him in class and roll their eyes at Lucian history and swipe tips to handle math. He missed having someone who knew why his nose itched before a good storm, and who didn't think it was weird that he had a Dad and a Cor, instead of a Dad and a Mom, or that he pulled at an earlobe when something good happened, to make sure not to jinx it. 

The only good thing, about the new school, was Noct. 

Noct got treated a lot like Prompto, only worse, because at least there were people who were willing to be upfront about things with Prompto, but no one would say anything to Noct to his face. Prompto knew how much that sucked, first hand, so he made an effort to be as good a friend to the Prince, as Harit and Scilpo were to him. Prompto was sure, absolutely sure, that Harit and Noct met, they'd become friends instantly and be forever lost in an endless chat about fish. But Harit had hesitated, when Prompto offered, and Prompto knew better than to ask again. 

After all, they were Galahdian, and Noct wasn't. 

Prompto wasn't completely sure what that meant, exactly, but he knew it was important. He knew it meant trust and safety and people feeling comfortable with each other, even if they used loud words and seemingly got into fights. Galahdians were safe, and anyone who wasn't... wasn't. At least not on principle. Something inside Prompto chaffed at the well-worn wisdom, but not enough he'd question it, or reject it entirely. After all, he knew how it felt to walk down the street at night, in their neighborhood – and maybe they didn’t live right at the heart of it, but the house was right at the border between places where braids were often seen, and places they were never seen at all – and have strangers wave and make sure they got home safe, sometimes stopping to give them sweets and trinkets, and ruffle their hair to admire their beads. Prompto was not allowed out alone after dark, in Gladio’s neighborhood for example, and even early in the morning, when he was out running with his Dad and they crossed that invisible border, strangers rarely even looked at them, much less waved and answered when they wished them good morning. Prompto had asked his Dad, at some point, why he bothered to greet everyone they met, if no one ever greeted them back, and his Dad had said that just because he was dealing with assholes, it didn't mean he had to be one himself. 

It didn't matter if Noct wasn't Galahdian though, Noct wasn't mean about it. Noct was smart and funny and Prompto always felt like he could tell him anything. He tried hard, to make Noct feel the same. They could talk about games and school and their parents, and it was... it was nice. Prompto had many friends, by then, because he liked making friends and he liked it when people liked him, but he really didn't have any other friend like Noct. 

It didn't matter if he wasn't Galahdian. It didn't matter if he didn't know the stories, if he didn't have beads braided into his hair. It didn't matter if his other friends were nervous and hesitant, and didn't seem enthused at the prospect of being friends with him. 

“He's the Prince, though,” Scilpo pointed out, as they sat on the floor of his and Harit's room, staring at a sea of trading cards, in their long-standing project to make one good deck between the three of them. “Like... Actual Prince. Royal blood and the whole thing.” 

“He's really nice about it, though,” Prompto pointed out, carefully laying out all the support cards they had, to try and pick the best ones. “He's not... you know...” 

“Lucian about it?” Harit said, eyebrows arched as he shuffled the cards in his corner. “He's the _Lucian Prince_ , Prompto.” 

“I mean, yeah,” Prompto sighed, “but he's nice.” He offered a wry smile. “Like his dad.” 

“His dad, the _King_ ,” Scilpo pointed out not so helpfully, because if Prompto had to be honest, like Cor staring down at him in disappointment honest, Scilpo was kind of a _dick_. “The _Lucian_ one.” 

“You know damn well he’s the only one,” Harit said, rolling his eyes at his brother when Scilpo shrugged defiantly, “the last Storm King died way back when.” 

“Just being respectful,” Scilpo pointed out, even though it was a lie, “wouldn’t want anyone to forget what he’s King of.” 

“It doesn’t matter if you don’t like his dad,” Prompto said, frowning, though he couldn’t quite fathom why anyone would not like Noct’s dad, he was the King and also always super nice, in his experience, “Noct is good people.” 

“But he’s not _storm_ people,” Scilpo shot back, taunting, and Prompto chewed on his hair, somewhat frustrated. “Not unless you get him to do the Walk, next time. If you’re still friends by then.” 

“Oh, he’d never be allowed to,” Harit interjected, before Prompto could snap something rude, which was in itself fairly rude: Prompto felt damn well entitled to be a dick, every once in a while, and Scilpo did literally always have it coming. “He’s the lone heir to the throne, they’d never let him really put himself at risk.” 

Prompto watched his friends nod at each other, the topic seemingly put to rest, and scowled at the handful of cards in his hands. 

And then he said: 

“Noct doesn’t need to Walk the Storm to prove his worth,” which was heretical and borderline blasphemous, he knew, but it bit at him, to think about, “’cause Noct tamed the Ocean.” 

...which was only strictly truth insofar as Ignis’ guardian being as terrifying as the open seas and nicknamed to match – though not, according to his Dad, in polite circles – and also always soft and gentle and not at all scary whenever Noct was around. 

Not that Scilpo or Harit would know, of course, and ordinarily, Prompto would only be so happy to share the inside joke, but he was feeling petty, so he did not. The rest of the afternoon was slightly testy and awkward, as they continued to work on the deck in somewhat sullen silence. But by the time Scilpo was whispering terrible stories into Prompto’s ear purely to watch Prompto shriek and try to hide under Harit’s shirt, it all seemed forgiven. 

Not forgotten, of course, they were too Galahdian for that, but forgiven. 

That was what brothers were for. 

* * *

The day of the attack, Prompto had been minding his own business, walking from school to the subway, and tugging at his bangs and wondering if he should dye them again. 

It was a little childish of him, dying his hair a dark brown that sat somewhere between Cor’s and his Dad’s, more so when he did it right before going back to school. Now no one at school except Noct knew what he looked like with his actual hair on his head, though that also meant he couldn’t… just stop dying it. Well, he could, but that would defeat the whole point of it, which was letting him stop standing out like a sore thumb no matter where he went. He wasn’t like his sister, he didn’t have the personality to carry that much attention on him all the time. 

Such were the things Prompto was musing on, walking the ten blocks to the subway station on his own – Noct wasn’t allowed to take the subway, no matter how many times he asked his guards – staring at his hair and not really paying attention to his surroundings, familiar and calm as they were. 

The pinch in his neck was a genuine surprise, and then the next time he was conscious and fully aware of himself, he was in bed in a hospital and his parents were there, freaking out and failing utterly at pretending they weren’t. 

That was all he really knew about the kidnapping – he’d been kidnapped, apparently – and that was okay by him. He didn’t want to know anything about whatever it was that made his Dad look at him like he was made of glass, or which made Cor refuse to meet his eyes in the first place. 

“I’m forbidding you ever getting hurt again,” Noct said, sitting on the edge of the bed and scowling at the IV drip in Prompto’s hand. “It’s a royal decree.” 

Prompto chuckled. 

“I’m not gonna argue, dude,” he said, eyes half lidded as he curled on his side, “you go convince the rest of the world to get on board.” 

Noct didn’t chuckle back, which… admittedly, Prompto didn’t hold against him. He was tired and sore and they still wouldn’t let him go home, if only because he was still getting dizzy and lethargic. All he really wanted was his bed, and maybe curl up against Cor’s side in the garden steps and sit with his Dad to watch funny contest shows. 

“This seriously sucks,” Noct muttered with a slightly dejected sigh. He looked at Prompto through the messy bangs half covering his eyes. “But you’re… you’re coming back, right? To school? Because it’s really boring, without you there.” 

“Sure,” Prompto said, and reached a hand to hold one of Noct’s. “Promise.” 

Noct squeezed his fingers, looking both solemn and relieved to hear it, and nodded. 

Honestly, Prompto wanted to go hide under a rock until the world stopped being terrible at him all the time. He smiled at Noct, and stumbled again upon that thought, that Noct was the best friend one could ever hope to have, and it didn’t… it didn’t matter, if Prompto’s other friends didn’t think so. He grasped at the shape of the thought, but not quite the thought itself, that storm-tested friends were always good friends, but not all good friends were by necessity storm-tested. 

Particularly when Noct looked at the door a bit nervously and then back to Prompto, and smiled mischievously as he pulled a bag of thin mints out of light and crystals. It looked a bit unstable, and not as smooth as when any of the adults they knew with Armiger access did it, but it was thin mints. 

“I love you,” Prompto blurted out laughing. 

“Well good,” Noct replied, grinning, “someone should.” 

* * *

“Cor’s angry at me,” Prompto confessed, about two weeks after he’d been allowed to go home, snuggling in the couch next to his Dad, with an armful of cat to bury his face into and try and muffle the words. 

“What,” Nyx said, startling. 

Prompto gave him a dubious look over the shapeless ball of fur he was holding up to his face. Nyx sighed and wrapped an arm around Prompto, inviting him to sprawl against his side and then pulling him in closer, until he was sitting on his lap, still stubbornly staring down at his cat. 

“Why do you think that?” Nyx asked quietly, gently, and let Prompto curl up into a little ball as he did. 

Prompto felt weirdly stupid for mumbling the words, but they were true: 

“’cause he’s never around anymore,” he said, and refused to look at his Dad’s face. 

Because he knew Cor had been the one to save him, not his Dad. But then he’d been released from the hospital and after sleeping a whole night for the first time in a week, Prompto woke up at six sharp and padded downstairs and found the garden steps empty. He still sat there, feet on the grass and eyes on the ground, but it wasn’t the same. It hadn’t been the same every single day since, and it hurt somewhere under his lungs in a way he couldn’t readily explain because… because Cor had never said he’d always do it. It wasn’t something they had agreed to, but that only made it worse because… because it was meant to be understood without words. 

And Prompto knew that Cor couldn’t be there, whenever he had to leave Insomnia and do… whatever he did, beyond the Wall. He wasn’t a baby. He understood that. But Cor was home, he just wasn’t around. And it hurt. And he didn’t know what had changed, except him being dumb and getting taken and Cor having to get him back. So of course… of course Cor was mad at him, or avoiding him, or something. 

Nyx pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, and Prompto bit the inside of his lip because he wasn’t a _baby_ , he wasn’t going to cry. 

Except maybe he was. 

“He’s not mad at you,” Nyx promised, voice low and soothing, the kind that could convince Prompto of anything if it wanted. “C’mon.” 

“ _Dad_ ,” Prompto hissed suddenly, when Nyx picked him up like he weighted nothing, cat and all, and started heading upstairs. 

“Cor,” Nyx announced as he walked into his and Cor’s bedroom – Prompto had grown to not go in that room, not for anything he’d seen, but for the sake of avoiding mental scarring like literally all of his friends had at this point suffered. Cor himself was sprawled on his half of the bed, blinking blearily at them, like he’d just woken up, even though it was well past noon. “Your son misses you.” 

And then Prompto was placed – cat and all – in Cor’s lap, but it was okay because Cor reached out to hold him steady. And maybe Prompto was a baby, a little bit, because he couldn’t explain why he had sobs clawing up his throat, or why he couldn’t stop them. 

“Hey,” Cor said, and Prompto wailed like he’d been hurt, even though he really hadn’t been. 

Cor didn’t call him out on that, even though Prompto thought he should, because he was mad and he was mad because Prompto was… well, it had to be Prompto’s fault somehow. All Cor did was hold him close, face buried into his hair, tight enough the cat squirmed out of Prompto’s hold with an indignant meow and went to sit at the edge of the bed. 

* * *

Cor kept working the night shift right up until Noct’s birthday, but once it passed without a hitch – Prompto went to all the parties, even the fancy ones neither he nor Noct enjoyed that much, but which Ignis always showed off at – he went back to his old schedule, including their little morning ritual on the garden steps. Prompto struggled to explain why it mattered, or what it meant, but then Cor put a mug of coffee – okay, milk with a splash of coffee – in his hands, and they shared a solemn look about it. 

Then it was fine. 

Prompto felt a little silly for even worrying about it, in the first place, but there was no point in lingering about it. 

It was fine. 

* * *

The next few weeks were just school and homework and friends, but as his own birthday loomed – _the_ birthday, in fact, as Libertus and Crowe liked to tease him whenever they saw him – Prompto found himself chewing on a very specific thought, more often than not. 

“So, for my project,” Prompto told his Dad, sitting at the dinning table and watching the latest mountain of jigsaw pieces slowly come together, “I was thinking… it’s gotta be something I know I can do, right?” 

Thirteen was the age Galahdians considered children to be adults. Prompto had heard stories, both from his Dad's friends and from… well, lots of people, people he knew and people he didn’t, but who wore beads on their hair, like him, about what it had been like, before. What they had done, back when Galahd was a place and not… not just the shared comfort of the Storm. Prompto, who had never seen Galahd the place, only the Storm, imagined it as a collage of stories and memories he’d been told, something magical and nonsensical that could only exist in the same place as the Storm itself. 

He liked those stories, though he wondered, sometimes, why it was that he had to get them from everyone, but his Dad. His Dad, Prompto realized, the older he got, had taught him everything he needed to know, to fit in and understand anyone who had beads in their hair. But he’d done it without ever once telling him the stories behind it. His Dad never talked about what life was like, in Galahd, what he missed about it or what he’d been like, growing up there. Prompto always felt awkward, asking outright, since he followed that well-worn wisdom, that if someone didn’t talk freely about something, it was perhaps better not to pry. Though he couldn’t for the life of him remember where he’d picked it up, it had yet to fail him. 

“I mean, kind of,” Nyx replied, staring at the puzzle, while fiddling with some pieces with his thumb. This month, it was a large, lovely landscape view of Altissia; it had a million tiny people and a million more bricked buildings and Prompto got dizzy just trying to make sense of the actual image, never mind the pieces of it scattered all over the table. “It’s gotta be something you want and that you’re going to work for.” 

Prompto got that. Both Harit and Scilpo had already gone through it, after all – and Scilpo in particularly delighted in poking at Prompto sometimes, about it. Harit was very proud of his fish tank, and everything that had gone into it, but Scilpo refused to say what he’d done. It was enough that he announced he was done. After all, it was a personal thing, their projects, something to mark the transition into being grown up, and if Scilpo said he was done, he was done. At least, Prompto thought a little gloomily, that meant he didn’t have to say, if he didn’t want to. 

“What if I want two things,” Prompto suggested, watching as his Dad slowly conjured an entire building out of the mess of pieces between his hands, “but I only know for sure I can do one of them… could I call them both my projects? Are you allowed more than one?” 

Nyx gave him a thoughtful look for a moment. 

“I don’t see why you couldn’t,” he said, slowly, and he frowned. “You know the project was not a thing, back home, right?” 

“You used to build rooms,” Prompto replied, nodding. “Like… from wood and stuff.” 

“Something like that,” Nyx said, smile wry, “but it’s already going to be different, right? So you can do whatever feels right. It’s your show, Prompto.” 

“Right,” Prompto said, flashing two thumbs up and a lot more confidence than he really felt. 

He wasn’t sure he was halfway good at being a kid. Proving he could he a dependable adult was just a little more overwhelming than he thought it should be. Though if in the end he could only do the dark room, like he’d been planning for the past six months, that was okay too. Photography was something he really wanted to dedicate himself seriously, enough to make a statement about it. He had it mostly figured out, though admittedly that was because he’d been carefully asking Ignis for help without really telling him for what, for the past six months, but that was okay because so long as he was the one who actually carried out the project, getting help for it wasn’t against the rules. There really weren’t any rules, in fact. Prompto would be a lot less stressed about the whole thing if he had clear cut instructions, but like most things relating to Galahd, rules were far and few in between, and guidelines were all contradictory pretty much always. 

He could do the dark room, as his project, and call it a day. 

The other thing… well, the other thing wasn’t even in his hands, really. It’d depend if Aranea even showed. 

“Dad?” Prompto asked, running his fingers along a painted red roof along the completed edges of the jigsaw, “what was it like? Your room?” 

Nyx placed a white piece in place, and did not look at him. 

“I didn’t,” he said, in that quiet tone of his that Prompto hated because it meant he was either angry or sad or both, and there were few things Prompto objectively despised as much as seeing his Dad angry or sad or both. “Build a room, I mean. I didn’t.” He placed another piece, and Prompto stared at his fingers as he did, long and strong and nimble, always fiddling, always doing something. “I joined the army, instead.” 

“Oh,” Prompto said, barely swallowing back a wince, and walked around the table to go hug his Dad, “I’m sorry.” 

Nyx hugged him back with a wry smile. 

“It’s okay, Prom.” 

But Prompto didn’t quite believe him. 

* * *

His birthday landed on Thursday, so the grand celebration that day was that Cor took them out to eat dinner by the Western Docks, to eat weird, purple, flaky fish that tasted sour but left a sweet aftertaste and his Dad had his favorite chocolate cake waiting for him when they finally got home, a full hour after Prompto’s usual bedtime. 

On Saturday, though, Libertus and Crowe came in early, to start preparing lunch. They’d offered to serve it in one of the buildings with the big hall, where everyone who lived there had beads braided into their hair, but Prompto had panicked at the thought of so many people in a single place, and instead they’d scaled down to the small strip of a garden behind the house, and just a few of their closest friends. 

Prompto debated with himself for a whole week, before he invited Noct, but in the end he decided it was only fair. It was his birthday, the only one that really mattered. That decision had shrunken the guest list a little more too, but that was okay. Prompto spent most of the week following his invite – which Noct accepted, of course, rather gleefully, since he’d never been invited to one of Prompto’s birthdays, because Prompto’s birthdays were not really celebrated the way his were – trying to coach him in proper manners, which were nothing like the manners he was used to. Prompto kept telling him he didn’t have to come if he didn’t want to, whenever he explained something and Noct gave him the squinty look that meant he thought Prompto was joking, that they could hang out on Sunday, just like they always did after his birthday, just the two of them. But Noct insisted he could do it; Prompto put up with dumb balls for his sake all the time, he could learn to figure out when to use a spoon and when to use his hands and how to not stare at people’s beads. 

The food was great, because of course it was. Libertus made all of it, and half the fun of it, in Prompto’s experience, was watching him yell about this or that to anyone who happened to be within yelling distance, twice as loud if they happen to also offer to help. They settled to eat in a long table in the garden, which felt a little crammed with it, since the garden wasn’t really all that big. But Crowe and Amira set nice, green leaves on the table, instead of a tablecloth, and Libertus poured the rice and the stirfry and the skewers right on it. Prompto sat between Noct and Harit, and tried not to look too smug when Noct mentioned fishing and Harit fell right into the conversational pit Prompto had always imagined they would. He probably wasn’t very successful, because Scilpo kept giving him looks like he knew what he’d done, and when he shuffled places with Harit, around the time the second round of stirfry was added to the table, Noct didn’t look as shy and he already had a good handle on how to not make a mess of himself, as he ate. 

There was a bit of a stir, among the grownups, when his dad offered to make dessert. Nyx had refused to let Prompto know what he was going to make, but nothing could have prepared Prompto for the way all the adults in the table stared wide eyed as his Dad started rolling a disc of soft candy in his hands, until it became a loose rope, and then began folding it, over and over again, until it was thin strands that looked like hair. He then rolled them around whatever fillings he was told, turning them into little packets that tasted sweet and airy and like nothing Prompto had ever eaten before. His Aunt Crowe actually started crying, when she tried one. Harit and Scilpo’s parents looked equally surprised and delighted by the whole thing, while Uncle Libertus had the most amazing scowl on his face, like he’d been cheated at cards and he didn’t know if he was impressed or annoyed. 

“You never told me you knew how to make sugar clouds,” he told his Dad, when he’d finished serving all the candy discs he’d prepared for it, and he’d gone and sit in Cor’s lap. 

Prompto nibbled on his second to last one – sugar clouds, as Libertus called them, though Scilpo’s mom called it Old Man’s beard – trying to focus on how it felt as it melted in his mouth, rather than the fact Cor was holding his Dad’s hand under the table, the way he only did when his Dad was upset about something. He wanted to make the treats last, he had a feeling it would be a very long time before he was allowed them again. 

“Family recipe,” Nyx told the table, eyebrows arched, and mouth twitching into a half smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “sorry, Lib.” 

Prompto was glad he still had one left to share, because Nea chose exactly that moment to arrive. 

* * *

Nea was pissed, when Prompto told her about the kidnapping. Mostly because no one had told her. Prompto figured there had been no point, after all, it had all been resolved so quickly, and there had been nothing for her to do. He wasn’t sure why neither of their parents had reached out, but he was sure they also had their reasons. 

“You’re my brother, you big dumb baby,” Nea told him, after she bonked his head and then smoothed his hair with her fingers, not quite like a caress. “Of course you should have told me.” 

“’m not a baby anymore,” Prompto replied, not looking up, and also not fighting when she sighed and tugged him closer, so he could burrow against her side. “All grown up now.” 

“You could be sixty and you’d still be a big dumb baby,” Nea retorted, “that’s just who you are.” She frowned. “Now, what were you going to ask me?” 

Prompto told her, about his projects. 

Nea yelled again and then passed one of her contacts to him and told him she’d take care of it, before she left. 

* * *

Tredd Furia was frankly terrifying, in Prompto’s humble opinion. He was tall and his hair was red – like actually red, not just so dark brown it looked reddish in the sun – and he had a scar across his face like one of the villains in Prompto’s favorite super hero TV show. He was big and strong and basically everything that Prompto wasn’t, but Nea had vouched for him, and that was enough for Prompto. 

Kinda. 

“So who’s face do you want to kick in?” Tredd asked him, the first time he picked Prompto up after school and led him to an old, abandoned building in what felt the other side of the city. 

“What?” Prompto spluttered, looking up at him in surprise. 

“Highwind didn’t say why you were doing this,” Tredd replied, shrugging as he took off his jacket and dumped it in the least dirty corner of the large room they were in, before motioning for Prompto to drop his schoolbag and his own jacket there too. “But that’s what this is, right? You wanna get back at some punk bitch and kick their teeth in?” 

“No!” Prompto gave him a scandalized look. “No,” he insisted, and tried to hold onto the stare for as long as he could, before he dropped his eyes and looked away. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.” 

“But?” Tredd asked, not quite impatient, but certainly lacking the edge of patience and gentleness that Prompto was used to getting from people who liked him. 

Then again, he didn’t know if Tredd liked him, or if Nea had just bullied him into this. It was Nea, after all. 

“But I’m tired,” Prompto replied, swallowing hard and gathering aplomb, “of getting hurt.” 

Tredd grinned. It made the scar twitch in ways that were frankly unnerving. 

“Fair enough, I can work with that,” he said, nodding, though not exactly in approval. The grin widened, and Prompto felt the strange urge to turn around and start running. “But you do know what this means, right? Coming to me instead of your Dad.” 

Prompto licked his lips and stayed right where he was. 

“What?” 

Tredd cracked his knuckles and gave Prompto an almost pitying look. 

“That I ain’t gonna go easy on you, kid.” 

Prompto hit the ground in five seconds time. But, and this was the important fact, he didn’t cry. He got back up and didn’t call it quits even though it hurt really bad. He had a project to work on, after all. 

He had to try, at least. 

* * *


	18. year xiv

* * *

_year xiv_

* * *

“I hate this,” Nyx said quietly, careful not to move as he felt Cor run the edge of the razor along the left side of his head, trimming the hair with a practiced hand. 

“I know,” Cor said, which was admittedly as close to full blown sympathetic he got, because even now, he was still the least reassuring creature Nyx had ever met. “If everything goes well, you’ll get your pound of blood.” 

“If it goes well,” Nyx muttered, closing his eyes and tilting his head into Cor’s hand, “which, let’s be real, it probably won’t.” 

Cor snorted, dry and taunting, and ran a thumb along the freshly trimmed hair, the sensation sending a rain of prickles down Nyx’s spine. Nyx dutifully tilted his head slightly so that Cor could lean in and press a kiss to the side of his throat, razor folded and left on the edge of the sink. Nyx reached a hand back and scrapped his nails against the growth of hair, just above the nape of Cor’s neck. 

And for a moment, there, everything was fine. 

Then the moment passed and Cor pressed a softer kiss higher up Nyx’s neck, and smirked at him in the mirror. 

“That would usually be the case, yes, but you’re forgetting the most important thing,” Cor said, arms falling easily around Nyx’s waist. “Both Monica and Anemone are involved in this.” 

“Monica deserves a raise,” Nyx snorted, shifting in Cor’s hold to turn around and leaning in to press his mouth against his. “Yearly reminder, by the way.” 

“She does, she has, and she needs to stop using you to get them,” Cor whispered against his lips. “It’s going to be okay.” 

“No,” Nyx sighed, and kissed him again, and then wrapped his arms around his shoulders and took a moment to center himself. “It’s going to be fucking horrible, but we’re going to make it okay. There’s a difference. And I still hate this.” 

Cor kissed him again, which was surprisingly reassuring, coming from him. Nyx clung to him, took a deep breath and by the time he pulled away, felt vaguely fortified enough to set out to do all that needed doing. 

They still hadn’t found anything to take either of them down, after all. 

* * *

Nyx wasn’t entirely sure how often the King signed new laws, but the latest one was definitely one he was keenly aware of. 

He hadn’t settled on how he felt about it, either, but most days there was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, full of angry, gnarled feelings, and he didn’t know what to do about it, except hope to ignore it until it went away, after today, since he was determined to not think about it, after today. On the one hand, it was objectively a good thing, for his people – and he was sick of thinking of his people, forced to close ranks not so much because he disliked his heritage or there was anything wrong with being Galahdian, but because he was tired of being reminded how different they were. The new law was good news, for Galahdians, though. It focused on their autonomy and recognized a lot of the rights they were routinely denied over ridiculous bullshit loopholes every step of the way. It was probably going to help a lot of people breathe easier, in the coming years, and help the community as whole build up something like stability, and maybe even let them not be shit on so often anymore. 

But beyond the fact Nyx had a complicated relationship with his own identity, having been forced to make hard choices over the years, picking sides and not always feeling welcome, because he’d unwittingly become one of the public faces of Galahd in Insomnia, there was also a profoundly personal stake, for him, in that law. Because nearly a year ago, now, his son had been taken – and yes, quickly recovered, but that didn’t change the fact he’d been _taken_ , and the only thing Nyx was grateful for, about that whole mess was the fact Prompto hadn’t been awake for any of it – and it wasn’t, as they had thought at the time, because he was friends with the Prince. It wasn’t because his social circle had somehow extended to include children from powerful, influential families. 

His son had been taken, because he was Galahdian. 

Because Nyx had been made into a public figure and someone thought he’d overstepped his place, and needed to be shoved back down. And Nyx was glad, that the reaction from those very powerful, influential people he’d somehow become friends with, was outrage on his behalf. He was glad they thought it was bullshit – because it was, of course it was – and their reaction was to close ranks and try to help. 

But there was a corner of Nyx’s brain, bitter and tired and worn raw by years spent living in Insomnia, listening to sneers and looking the other way at every jeer and insult thrown his way, that was blisteringly, viciously angry that it took him nearly losing his son, for any of them to muster enough of a fuck to _care_. 

Anemone had hissed and spat, tracing back payments and favors and following fingerprints until she’d found the source of that particular attack, and she’d gone out for blood because court games were all fun and games until children got hurt. And she said it so proudly, so viciously, that Nyx had only watched her ruin those responsible as best she could, and didn’t point out all court games ended with children hurt, it was just children she never saw, names she never knew. And of course Monica was scrupulous and sharp-eyed and perfectly dedicated to enforce the law because deep down she thought the law was justice even though in Nyx’s experience they didn’t always entirely align or even exist in the same plane of reality. And Clarus was heartfelt and Sylva was solemn and the King was saddened, and deep in his bones Nyx felt the question boiling impatiently, wanting to be let out: _why did it take my son for you to notice?_

Cor helped, at least. Cor listened when he hissed and asked him what he wanted, instead of assuming he knew better. Cor kept to his word, always in his corner, and Nyx loved him with the kind of self-evident weight that things like gravity and the cycle of day and night had. It was just the way it was, and it was good, and he deserved it. And when he was too angry to force words past his teeth, he sat in Cor’s lap and hid his face in Cor’s throat and the world stopped mattering quite so much, as Cor drummed his fingers along his spine and very pointedly didn’t tell him well-meaning platitudes that fell flat in the face of facts. 

“When were you going to tell me?” Nyx asked, standing next to Cor at the doorway of the Council room, waiting for the various Lords and Ladies to settle down so the grand signing could start. “About Scylla,” he clarified, lips barely moving. 

Cor’s eyes widened a little, before the corner of his lips twitched. Issac Scylla was the current ruling elder for Anemoi, in the Galahdian assembly, so he was, in fact, Nyx’s elder. He’d also been ruling elder for nearly a decade now, mostly because he kept doing things people liked, and so people kept voting for him, each year. Nyx didn’t have much of a bone to pick with him, except for the part where he kept trying his honest best to turn Nyx into some kind of quasi, not quite elder and made him decide things with the others, purely because Nyx was the poor sucker stuck with the job of herding the pack of wet cats that happened to comprise the Kingsglaive. 

Scylla had also let it slip to him, in the long, tedious talks building up to this moment, what exactly Cor had done, after the Walk, when he’d been approached by Scylla – then on his first year on the job – about the fact he was Galahdian now. 

“Possibly never,” he murmured, hands held behind his back, eyes back to tracking Regis as he moved into the room. “Money stresses you out.” 

Traditionally, there was always a Crownsguard and a Kingsglaive stationed at the doors of the Council room, whenever it convened. Today was special enough – and the King wanted to make it significant enough – that those roles were currently being filled by Cor and Nyx themselves. It was one of the most boring jobs in rotation, if one asked any of Nyx’s men, but Cor and Nyx had the advantage that if they kept quiet, they could chat while they waited for the meeting to start, and not one stuffy Lucian Lord would have the balls required to chide them for it. 

Rank, Nyx thought somewhat snidely, had its benefits. 

“Your utter fucking lack of regard when it comes to money is what stresses me out,” Nyx hissed back, eyes roaming the large, ornate table, qualifying the stupid, sneery expressions on stupid, sneery men and women who controlled the entirety of Lucis. “And I’m the one who grew up without a concept of the fucking thing.” 

“Scylla’s not complaining,” Cor muttered with a small twitch of lips, as if to try and declare the conversation over. 

“Was this before or after you gave him a heart attack?” Nyx snorted quietly, as at long last Clarus actually took his seat at the King’s right, wearing the ridiculous-looking robes that were somehow consecrated to the room and required for any business held in it to be considered actually official. 

Because Cor had, with that fantastic disregard he had, for matters concerning money, shrugged half the dragon hoard he called a bank account onto a spluttering, stuttering Scylla, and then kept doing it with every paycheck after that, month over month, just like Nyx did, since then. Nyx didn’t know if he wanted to kiss him or strangle him for it, which was probably the whole reason Cor had chosen not to mention it. 

Jackass. 

“After,” Cor snorted, catching Nyx eye with his own and flashing him a wry, little smirk. 

Kiss him it was, Nyx decided, and then stood to attention just as Cor did, when the King began to address his Council. 

* * *

The signing at the Council was the one that counted for Insomnia, of course, the one that made the law take effect and caused a ridiculous amount of scandal, considering how narrowly it was aimed at Galahdians. The signing at the Council was the reason Nyx had let Cor fix his hair for him, retouching the shaved bits to make sure they were even, and he’d even worn the monstrosity that was his formal uniform for it, all shiny, dangly bits of it. 

But the one that really mattered, in Nyx’s opinion, was the one at the heart of Little Galahd, in the same park Prompto liked to hang out with his friends, whenever he wasn’t hanging out with the Prince. That was the one Nyx had had to argue for, bargain and negotiate, and once more put himself in the rather bizarre position of standing across the table from the people who were meant to understand him best of all, and convince them to see things his way. It worked out better this time, than last time that had happened, at least. Last time he’d taken his son and refused to bring him back until after he’d completed a Walk, and proven what Nyx had had tried to tell them, then. This time around, they actually listened. 

He wasn’t bitter about that, except for the obvious fact that he was, but he didn’t allow himself to linger too much on it. That was then, and this was now, and though Nyx had always been shit at the whole let go of the past thing that seemed to be a cornerstone of his culture, he was at least decent at pretending. 

“It’s almost over,” Cor muttered, leaning on the backrest of a bench, as they watched the crowd roll in. 

“You’re sweet when you lie to make me feel better,” Nyx replied, and meant it soft rather than sharp, because they both knew the retaliation for the law was going to be loud, screaming and unfair. 

Cor smiled wryly, lips twitching. It tickled something in the back of Nyx’s head to realize he didn’t really look out of place, standing there, in worn jeans and a shirt for a band that skirted as close to his actual music taste as it was legal to admit. It was like Cor belonged there, and Nyx’s brain went to static at the thought, after so many months chewing on what belonging even meant anymore. 

Then Regis was there, sitting at the table with the elders, like equals, without the usual wall of Crownsguard shielding him from the world, because the plaza was full of the Kingsglaive in civilian clothes, but also because it meant something, that he presented himself that way. The King’s speech was about reparations and restitution over the great harm that had befallen Galahd under his reign, and a solemn promise to one day get them home. It was nice and heartfelt enough, Nyx reckoned not a lot of people would be bitter enough to point out it had been nearly twenty years since Galahd burned to the ground. They were Galahdian, though, all of them, and they still valued the present over the past, and the future above all else. Insomnia had proven itself as dangerous to them, as Galahd itself had been, just a lot less straightforward about it. 

Nyx tuned it out anyway, because he’d stumbled upon the thought of his family being the sacrificial lamb for the greater good, and he couldn’t not be sick at it, because it was just history repeating itself. 

That was an entire can that didn’t need opening, now or ever. 

* * *

Despite the stress and the annoyance and the increasing angry feeling coiling in his gut when he wasn’t actively ignoring it, Nyx survived the first three months after the signing relatively unscathed. Sure, it only put him in the spotlight more, and Scylla was an absolute shithead constantly inviting him to weekly elder meetings that he purposefully didn’t attend because he was thirty four and so far away from being an elder, he was halfway determined to die before it was even an actual, formal option. He’d done his part, he wanted to say, whenever he turned on the night news and there was another passive aggressive piece on Galahd and the King’s boundless generosity. He’d done his part. He’d sat down and signed and pretended he had any right to be there at all, just because he happened to be the one whose orders were questioned the least, in the Kingsglaive. He’d done his part, he’d sat one long, tedious interview – never again – and he’d smiled enough at the camera when the time for pictures came. 

He’d done his part, they could all fuck off and stop asking for more, because he knew what he had left to give and it was non-negotiable, greater good or not. He wasn’t a dumb kid anymore, willing to be swept by the idea of selflessness without realizing all it meant was being left behind hollow and alone. He had the scars and the nights he woke up with screaming caged between his ears and the smell of sulfur curdling under his tongue, to prove it. 

And yet, he still woke up every morning and wrapped his hair into braids and hung beads from the tips. He still smiled at the sky when it rained. He still went out of his way to help strangers in the street, if nothing else because they had braids and beads too. 

“I was thinking,” Cor told him, head propped up in an arm, while the other traced a slow, repeating stroke along Nyx’s back, and they both pretended very hard, Nyx hadn’t woken up in the middle of the night again, eyes wild and manic, “Gladio will complete the Crownsguard internship next month.” 

“You must be very proud of him,” Nyx said, and didn’t feel quite hollow as he did, nose buried into the dip between Cor’s collarbones. 

“Yeah,” Cor hummed and let his arm settle on Nyx’s waist. “I was thinking taking him out camping, to celebrate. To Duscae.” 

If Cor would just straight up ask him what was wrong with him, with the nightmares and the short temper and the persistent down turn on the corner of his mouth, Nyx might have felt tempted to tell him to go fuck himself. But then, Cor was Cor and he always refused to give Nyx the easy, self-destructive out. It made it really hard not to love him, which might be why Nyx had long given up pretending he didn’t. 

“That sounds nice,” he said, because it did, and because Cor had that look on his eyes, the one where he was trying to figure out how to ask something, and not sure how to word it right. 

“Nice enough to come along?” Cor asked, and didn’t mention how it would involve getting Nyx out of Insomnia for at least a week, or make Nyx contemplate the sheer burst of yearning because holy fuck, did he want that more than air at the moment. 

“Maybe,” Nyx muttered, letting his eyes slide close as he pressed up further into Cor’s chest. “Don’t want to intrude on your godson bonding moment.” 

“He’s been bonding with the sole of my boots for a year now,” Cor admitted, with that self-deprecating tilt to his voice he always used when he talked about training the future Shield, because he freaked out about the thought of hurting the boy almost as much as he’d once freaked out about the thought of hurting Nyx. It was cute in that sharp, spiky way of theirs that hurt as much as soothed. “I was thinking about taking Prompto and Nea along anyway.” 

“The more the merrier,” Nyx sighed, and wrapped an arm around Cor’s back, anchoring him in place. “Yeah, that’d be nice.” 

He didn’t really go back to sleep – there were too many loud, feral memories twisting into thoughts behind his eyelids for that – but he relaxed somewhat, and lulled himself into a weird not-sleep by listening to the sound of Cor’s even, deep breathing. 

* * *

At some point, over the following weeks, Nyx found himself in Clarus’ office, going over planed strikes to daemon or monster nests that were big enough to be considered a priority but not too big to require immediate deployment, and somehow ended up suggesting Clarus and his family joined them in the trip. Clarus looked worn and tired pretty much always, and Anemone was still culling edges of the court that were misbehaving and resenting the favorable restructuring of the Crown’s relationship with the Galahdians living in Insomnia. Their stress and their anger never made him feel good, even when it was on his behalf. They were good people, it was the thing, loyal and fierce and so wholly Lucian it made his teeth hurt. 

Thus Cor’s initial idea of a trip with the kids turned into a joint family venture, and it was the kind of mundane, politically unremarkable thing that helped settle the salt twitching inside Nyx’s bones. Camping became staying over at the chocobo rest stop, purely for Iris’ sake. Though Cor, Clarus and Gladio did spend a few nights out in a haven in the plains, because they were very manly men who clearly hadn’t spent enough time sleeping on the ground to fully appreciate beds and indoor plumbing. 

And admittedly, watching Prompto’s face as he fell head first into another obsession the moment he sank his hands into a chocobo’s plush plumage did wonders for Nyx’s soul. So did watching Cor and Clarus butt heads over dominoes until Anemone sat at the table and fleeced them both with a bright, cheerful smile. And it was pretty hard to sink into ennui with a prime view of Gladio’ awkward, gangly limbs, still too long for his frame – and likely still with a few more inches to go – trailing adoringly after his sister, holding this or that, in a way that brought to mind the image of a very anxious hen trailing after an intrepid chick. 

It rained the third day and he soaked on it like a cat would in sunlight. He laid on a slope of glossy grass, with Prompto curled up against his side, while they chatted about nothing particularly profound or important. 

It was nice. 

It reminded Nyx there was good in the world, and it needn’t be paid with blood. Not always. Not necessarily. And so he found himself breathing easier, out under the sky without the wall dampening the glow of the stars above their heads. 

“You are so _tall_ , holy shit,” Nyx told Gladio, who greeted them with a tray of hot tea and the awkward look of someone being ordered to do something and not wholly sure it was a good idea. 

“Ah,” the boy said – because despite the fact he had at least two inches on Nyx, he was still a boy – and ducked his head, face warm. “Mum made tea, said it’d be good to chase the chill out your bones.” 

“Your mom’s nice,” Prompto chirped easily, taking a mug and scurrying away to find Anemone and say it to her face, probably, and Nyx let him if only because Cor would shoo him into a shower, before he left a wet trail everywhere. 

“She is,” Nyx said, taking the remaining mug and watching in amusement as Gladio folded up the tray under his arm, a little self-consciously. “Thanks.” 

“’s okay,” Gladio replied, nodding slowly. “Thanks for… coming along with us.” 

“It’s been fun, hasn’t it?” Nyx said, lips twitching into an amused smile. “Nice break from the city.” 

Gladio nodded, and when Nyx sat down on the steps of the cabin, took only a moment of hesitation to sit right next to him. 

“Dad says you’re going out hunting tomorrow,” he said, looking excited but not actually asking what he wanted to ask. 

“Cor is incapable of saying no to killing giant monstrous shit, and Wiz knows it well,” Nyx pointed out, grinning, even though he was just as incapable and they both agreed it was kind of fun. “So yeah. Do you want to come along?” 

“Sure,” Gladio replied, face lighting up immediately. 

“Although...” Nyx teased, arching an eyebrow and trying not to laugh at the serious, solemn look he got, “you gotta do me a solid, okay?” 

“Anything,” the boy said, nodding. 

“Can you maybe slouch a little?” Nyx said, and grinned when Gladio spluttered. “Seriously, man, do you sleep hanging from the ceiling or something?” 

“Maybe,” Gladio retorted, wrinkled his nose but grinning right back, “you should have seen the look on Dad’s face when he realized I’d gotten taller than him.” 

“I reckon it looks something like mine,” Nyx sighed, shaking his head. 

They shared a little chuckle at that, and Nyx smiled when Gladio’s back relaxed a little. He was a good kid, all around, Clarus’ lamppost bookworm of a kid. Nyx still remembered him when he was knee-high and carrying around the bundle of blankets that was his baby sister. 

“So,” Gladio began, a little quieter, not quite nervous but almost shy. “I’ve been… meaning to ask.” 

“Mmm?” Nyx hummed encouragingly, sipping the warm tea; there was something floral to it, that he couldn’t quite place, but it was lovely. 

“I… kinda want to let my hair grow?” Gladio said, not quite chewing at his lip. “Now that I’m not living in the barracks anymore, and I don’t have to keep it short. And I was… I mean, I just. I like your hair, but Mum said I should ask you, ‘cause I don’t know if it’s… y’know. A Galahdian thing and I’m not...” He ducked his head, and looked away. 

“Oh,” Nyx replied, blinking and automatically reaching a hand up to finger the tips of the hair trailing down his shoulders. He was due a trim soon, in fact. “You mean the braids or the shaved sides?” 

“Both?” Gladio said, a little hopeful. “It looks cool.” 

“Thanks,” Nyx said, grinning a little. “The shaved sides are fine, but you probably don’t want to wear the braids. I mean, you can, because it’s the beads that actually matter, but people are going to give you shit about them regardless.” 

Gladio winced. 

“Yeah, I… followed some of the news, after the King signed the new law.” He frowned. “People got really mad about that for some reason.” 

Nyx dropped an arm on Gladio’s shoulder. 

“Don’t worry about it,” and for some weird reason, he actually believed it when he said: “It’ll sort itself out.” 

“You don’t mind, then?” Gladio asked, again, and it was freaking cute, how anxious he looked. “If I let my hair grow like that?” 

“Nah,” Nyx reassured him, patting his back. “You do whatever makes you happy, okay?” Gladio nodded slowly. “Good,” and Nyx swung back the rest of the tea, “now let me go take a shower, or Cor’ll give me shit all night ‘cause my toes are freezing.” 

Gladio choked on a laugh, awkward and surprised, and took Nyx’s empty mug from his hand. 

It was going to be okay. 

* * *

“Thanks,” Nyx whispered, head plopped on Cor’s thigh, eyes half lidded as familiar, loving fingers slid through the wet strands of hair. 

“For what?” Cor asked, as they watched the sun crawl slowly in the horizon, sitting on the small deck outside the cabin they’d claimed as their own. 

“For getting me out of that fucking city,” Nyx snorted and inched up closer, letting his eyes slide shut when his head was firmly planted on Cor’s lap. “For letting me take the time to sort out the dumb shit inside my head.” 

Cor’s hand on his hair stilled for a moment, before his thumb started rubbing circles on the tendon right at the base of Nyx’s skull. 

“Last year,” he said, voice low and quiet, “was rough.” 

Which was such a fucking understatement it made Nyx want to laugh. But he knew what Cor meant. Cor hadn’t… he hadn’t been okay, after Prompto was taken. It was months before he was back somewhere mostly sane. Nyx had tried his best to give him what he needed and what he wanted, while he sorted that mess out, and he appreciated the implication that this was just Cor returning the favor. Which was… nice. The kind of well-worn comfortable nice that came with a decade and change living inside each other’s bones. 

“About last night,” Cor began, and Nyx could hear the frown in his voice, enough he didn’t need to open his eyes to confirm its existence, but did anyway, because he loathed the note of unsure distress buried so far down Cor’s voice, he doubted anyone who wasn’t him would notice it. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” Nyx said, turning around and reaching a hand to brush along the edges of Cor’s beard – still impeccably neat, of course, because this was Cor, who couldn’t stomach his beard looking anything but perfect, basically ever – and pulling at the hair lightly with his knuckles. “I’m not… I’m not judging or anything.” 

Even though he had, a little, at the time, because it was quite something to see Anemone drunkenly chiding Cor and imply he’d seduced her husband before. And. Okay. That. Wow. Nyx wasn’t generally the judgmental kind, but the whole notion of Cor fucking Clarus had. Layers. And implications. And he wasn’t jealous so much as baffled, and fuck him sideways, trying hard not to let his thoughts spiral into actually _imagining_ it. Even though the whole point was that his brain was a messy, unruly trainwreck of stupid thoughts he couldn’t quite control at the moment. 

“I hadn’t met you,” Cor said, because he was the kind of stupid asshole who lived inside the chaos of Nyx’s brain and actually knew how to navigate it, the words subtly, gently stabbing at the boil of anxiety clawing its way up his throat. “When we… yeah.” And then, in a tinier voice, which was a dead giveaway that Cor was boiling over with embarrassment: “It was just the one time.” 

“Oh,” Nyx said, more a sigh than anything else, and didn’t let himself think too much why he was relieved to hear it. He sat up, inching back, until he was tangled up in Cor’s lap, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. And because he was an idiot and he couldn’t stop himself, he added: “So you two weren’t…” 

“Not really,” Cor wrinkled his nose and sighed hard against Nyx’s throat. 

“You still don’t have to tell me,” Nyx said, pressing his lips against an ear. “It’s really none of my damn business, I just don’t know when to shut up.” 

“It’s not...” Cor started, and stopped, just like the night before, tongue twisted into a knot. Which was so rare, in Cor, who always said exactly what he meant and meant exactly what he said; Nyx could feel the frustration boiling over under his skin. “I want to explain, I just haven’t figured out _how_.” 

“You don’t have to justify yourself to me,” Nyx whispered, holding him close, and realized the moment the words were out of his mouth, how desperately he wanted to hear them back. 

He couldn’t ask for it, though, and that was the realization that followed, inexorable. Because Nyx knew Cor loved him, and stood by him, and whatever bullshit the world sent their way, it was bullshit they could deal with together. But Cor didn’t know the things Nyx had done and had been done to him, to make him into the person he’d met, way back when. And it was sort of their thing, that, the blatant refusal to look into the past or speak of it, because the underlying understanding was that it was a piece of shit on fire atop a trainwreck, and they were better off not lingering on it. Normal people, people who lived happy lives and had normal hobbies and normal jobs and did very much not kill people for a living, much less start before they hit puberty… normal people weren’t like _them._ They could see it, in each other and themselves, the ghosts where the war had gauged them open, torn off bits and pieces, but then, Prompto had been there, to anchor them on something that wasn’t bitter and vicious and stank of the war. They recognized each other for what they were and tacitly agreed to never look back. It was weirdly Galahdian of Cor, that, and Nyx had appreciated it then, a lot more than he did now. Because he didn’t want to know, but he also desperately needed to know. And what was worse, he wanted to _share_. 

Because he never looked back, no, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t keenly, sorely aware of the ghosts looming on his shoulders, the prices he’d paid to survive the greater good long enough to be where he was. And though he stood to collapse into himself and destroy everything he loved, he wanted more than anything to tell Cor about Galahd, watching the river boiling, rolling, raising like a wall of lightning and fury. He wanted to tell him about the blood forever stuck under his fingernails, the choices he made to get where he was, the many times he died and came back, and the names he didn’t dare speak up even when they crawled through the fog of guilt and shame and nestled in his nightmares. He wanted to explain why his kukri set was mismatched, to list out every ignoble, unforgivable thing he’d done, because he had been thirteen when he joined the war and he’d had time to learn how to be despicable. He wanted to shove that at Cor and have him exonerate him anyway, tell him it didn’t matter and know Cor _meant_ it. 

“I love you,” Cor said, quiet and sincere, and Nyx kissed him, because the alternative was set himself on fire on the spot. 

* * *

Cor took him to a graveyard, two weeks after they got back to Insomnia. 

By then the news had found new things to be utterly outraged about, than Galahdians being unreasonably – their words, of course – favored by the King. There was still a tide of comments and articles and short spots, but it lacked the feverish quality the nightmare had had, right after the signing. It was a late autumn and the evening wind was just chilly enough to make Nyx wish he hadn’t left his jacket on the backseat of the car. He followed Cor along the narrow path, flanked at each side by small, humble markers. 

Nyx was Galahdian, raised and bred, and the idea of graveyards always sat weirdly morbid in his head. The dead were dead, and so the dead had to care for them; or so the common wisdom claimed, among his people. Where Galahdians burned their dead and scattered their ashes into the storm, letting them go after a night of drinking and stories and relishing their time among them, Insomnians revered death. They built monuments and buried their dead, setting out space to house corpses even though the reality was that space was a valuable commodity in a city forever fenced in by the wall. It was baffling and weird, and yet, to his chagrin, Nyx sort of got it, too. Because Nyx had always been shit at the bit where you let go, after someone died. He’d kept the pictures, after all, rather than burn them – they had been burned, anyway, when he’d been dead and his friends, who were not too frail and clingy to be Galahdian about things, had burned his stuff and given up on waiting for him to come back – because there was something fundamentally comforting, about keeping mementos and having a reminder of why he did what he did. 

Cor came to a stop in front of a small slab of pale granite, edges sharp and crisp, raising from the soft grass into a sort of box shape with _A.L.C._ engraved on it, with years rather than actual dates – _708 – 736_ – which even Nyx thought was a little weird. He was admittedly more distracted by the fact there was a sword stuck coming out the end of the grave, in place of a marker, and it was a hauntingly familiar shape, except for the fact the ornamental stones in Cor’s were red, and these ones were blue. 

Then Cor _sat_ on the grave, pulled out a pack of smokes, shuffled one into his lips and offered one to Nyx. 

“I don’t have a sister,” he explained, as he lit up the cigarette. He blew up the smoke at the sky, and did not meet Nyx’s eyes. “Never had, at any point, a sister.” 

“Right,” Nyx replied, somewhat mystified and somewhat reluctant to sit on the slab next to him, because that was someone’s grave, there was a decomposing – very decomposed, going by the dates – body somewhere beneath them. 

“That said,” Cor went on, rubbing his nose and frowning at the glowing tip of the cigarette, “I’d like you to meet my sister.” 

* * *

Nyx sat on a bench, early enough in the morning to be still considered night, arms thrown against the backrest, staring at the play of light around the monument. It was a tall, marble box, which made sense since it was supposed to be a grave – and there was that twinge again, in the pit of his stomach, because this was a plaza a fifteen minute walk away from the Citadel, and he was there at that hour, because it was usually bursting with people at any other time, and these crazy fucking Lucians went and put a grave in the middle of it – with a carving of the Queen in a saintly posture, smiling down at those who walked up to the fountain at her feet. Nyx couldn’t imagine the woman Cor had described to him, wearing that expression, and he supposed it was a small comfort, to know the morbid monstrosity was empty. 

He got home just in time for Prompto to wake up for their morning run, and gave into the sudden, overwhelming urge to pull his boy into a tight hug, just before they set out. Prompto hugged him back and laughed, because he couldn’t hope to really understand the gnarled mess of thoughts circling aimlessly inside Nyx’s mind. He just hugged back because he still hadn’t reached that age where he realized that hugs couldn’t quite fix anything, no matter how long or how tight they were. 

Nyx made a note to, once he was done sorting out and digesting the implications of everything brewing in his head, make Cor promise him to not let them put him in a stone cage, when he died. 

* * *

“I had a mother,” Nyx whispered, sitting with Cor on the steps to the garden, sharing a beer and staring at the stars glimmering beyond the wall. “And I had a sister. And it says something, doesn’t it, that they’re not here, but I am.” Cor laced their fingers together and tugged him until Nyx let his head rest on his shoulder. “I remember what they did, and I remember who they were, but the stupidest thing is, I don’t remember what they look like anymore. I can still hear them, in my head. I still remember what they sounded like, when they died.” 

“I only remember pieces of her anymore, so I know what you mean,” Cor admitted, staring down the neck of his bottle, gauging how much he had left. “But I don’t think we’re supposed to remember everything, forever.” 

Nyx hummed in the back of his throat, considering, and took another swing of his beer. 

“In Galahd, we don’t honor the dead,” he explained. “We’re not supposed to remember them at all, not in the… lingering sense. You take their stuff and tear down their quarters and build a pyre out of them, along with the body if you still have it. And while the pyre burns, without a body if you couldn’t salvage it, it doesn’t matter, you can… remember them. The best and the worst of them, whatever… made them who they were.” He swallowed hard. “You’re supposed to… feel out the hole they left behind, every nook and cranny that will be cavernously empty without them there. And, when they’re just cool ashes on the ground, you sweep them out into the storm, and you go right back into filling up that hole. It’s not like they never existed, it’s just… they’re gone now, and you’re not. And the dead look after the dead, so the living must look after the living.” 

Cor’s thumb rubbed against Nyx’s knuckles, a soft, quiet reminder that he was there. 

And then. 

“You didn’t get to burn pyres for them, did you,” Cor said, and it wasn’t even pretending to be a question. “For your mother, and your sister.” 

Nyx closed his eyes and found himself standing at the riverside, watching water boil up in divine wrath, lightning and sulfur and _rage_. 

“No.” 

He couldn’t have. They bled and the river _boiled_ ; the blasphemy that paid for his life, not once, but twice. For the greater good. For the sake of giving the living a chance to look after the living. 

And yet. 

“I made a shrine, instead,” Nyx confessed, biting the inside of his lip, “when I got here. I had… pictures of them. A handful of trinkets. Enough to pile up together and burn but.” _But I didn’t want to_. “It didn’t matter, in the end. ‘cause I died and they, Lib and Crowe, they did what they had to.” 

“But they did it for you, not for them,” Cor guessed, with that weird, uncanny knack he had, to stab right at the heart to everything. 

“It’s _stupid_ ,” Nyx snarled, glaring at the empty bottle in his hand. “They’re dead. They’ve been dead forever and it doesn’t matter how and it doesn’t matter why. They just are. But every now and then something reminds me, and I get fucked up all over again.” 

Cor ran a hand through his hair, in silence. It was a soothing gesture, but it wasn’t… it wasn’t patronizing. It wasn’t the sort of thing that was telling him to shut up and stop whining about things. Which Cor never did, and Nyx knew it, but he wanted a fight, deep down, his fucked up brain wanted to be berated for it so he could feel justified in lashing out. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Cor asked instead, quiet and solid and _there_. “About what set you off this time?” 

Nyx wanted to say no. Because holy fucking shit, no, he didn’t want to dig around and find the edges where it hurt. He knew exactly where they were and he knew exactly what they meant, and he wasn’t sure Cor understood the pit of shit they were standing next to. 

He didn’t want to, but he did. 

“You and I both know that our friends are decent people,” Nyx said, licking his lips. “They care about doing the right thing, and they actually do it, when they realize what it is. But I have a shitfuck track record, losing family to the greater good. And it’s not lost to me, that it took our son going through the nightmare he did, for our friends to do something about it. And now I’m sitting here, expected to be grateful that things _have_ changed, that things _will_ be better, and all I can think about it is him lying on that bed, drugged and scared. But I can’t say that, to anyone, because it’s petty and selfish, and what about _the greater good_.” Nyx swallowed hard. “My mother and my sister, the war didn’t kill them. It wasn’t the Nifls and their MTs. It wasn’t fear or hunger or anything tangible like that. The greater good killed them, because they each reached a point where they felt they had no other choice. I came to Insomnia and I told myself I was done thinking that way, and here we are, twenty years later, and I’m still watching my family get hurt and being told it’s justified, because it’s for the greater good.” 

Cor was quiet, then, for a long time. Nyx sat next to him, holding tight onto his hand, and waited. 

“...would it help, if I was selfish on your behalf?” Cor asked, and then looped an arm around Nyx’s shoulders, fingers still loosely tangled in each other’s. Nyx felt Cor’s lips twitch into a wry smile, pressed against his temple. “Because I’m really good at being selfish.” 

“You’re not,” Nyx retorted, because Cor was the kind of person who gave and wasn’t bitter about it, who didn’t have to keep tally of every single thing just so he wouldn’t go insane about it. “You’re good at running away from things,” he said, and it wasn’t reproachful at all, more so when he added: “I think it’d help, if you keep reminding me we can _leave_. I don’t… I corner myself, inside my head and I make stupid choices and then I hate myself for it.” 

Cor pressed his lips more firmly against the crown of his head. 

“Say the word,” he promised, and he meant it, and it settled heavy and warm in the pit of Nyx’s gut, “and we’ll go.” 

Nyx took a deep breath and then went limp and loose-limbed against Cor’s side. 

“Not today,” he said, eyes closed and feet still firmly on the ground, “but I make no promises about tomorrow.” 

* * *


	19. year xv

* * *

_year xv_

* * *

Cor looked up from his book – a five hundred page doorstop of historical fiction mixed with an absurdly shmoopy romance set in the times of Regis’ father’s reign, which Gladio swore up and down was really good and which Cor was having trouble with because he kept expecting the Shield to call the King something along the lines of _you absolute royal inbred shithead_ , which Lucius Amicitia had, in fact, done, at least six separate times, in Cor’s presence, and instead he was stuck with this perfectly poised and solemn and not at all perpetually half-drunk Lord Amicitia formally and lovingly addressing his King in ways that made Cor squint and wonder if the author had some misconceptions about what the Shield-King bond _actually_ entitled – just as Nyx flung the door open and made a beeline for the bed, before throwing himself dramatically into it. Cor waited patiently while he screamed into his pillow. 

“That bad huh?” 

“I... I… I can’t,” Nyx snarled, wrapping his arms around his pillow and tugging it to his chest, as he curled on his side and stared up at Cor with the look of a broken man. “I just. I can’t. I can’t. He’s just. And. _I can’t._ ” 

“Breathe,” Cor advised, closing the book and turning on his side, one arm folded so he could rest his head in his hand. “And count. Counting helps.” 

“Punching that fucking human sack of shit in the balls would help,” Nyx hissed, baring his teeth at him, “counting is just giving me time to process how fucking much I hate that man.” 

Cor risked a potential bite and reached a hand to pass his fingers along Nyx’s hair, and along the braids neatly tucked behind his hear. Nyx made a terse sound, seemed to consider carefully whether to bite or not, and then mercifully decided not to, because he slumped forward, inching his way until he was resting his head on Cor’s chest. 

“I legit just asked for a new printer,” Nyx muttered bitterly, eyes sliding half close as Cor dug his fingers into his hair. “I mean, yes, it’s on me that Tredd blew up our printer and covered the office in a two inch thick crust of toner, but come the fuck _on_. If I knew he was going to be like this about it, I’d have paid for it out of my pocket and not added to the expense report. Shit.” 

“Can the Tredd fund even take the hit, though?” Cor murmured wryly, almost teasingly. “So soon after the last drunken brawl?” 

Nyx huffed. 

“He’s not a bad kid, you know?” He sighed. “He’s just. Got basically zero self-control. Which I know is fucking terrifying when _I_ ’m the one who thinks that, but. He’s mostly an okay kid. Mostly.” 

Cor leaned in to brush his lips against Nyx’s forehead. 

“That doesn’t actually answer the question I asked,” Cor pointed out, grinning when Nyx dug his fingers into his sides mercilessly. “...which I suppose _is_ answer enough.” 

There was a moment of silence, while Nyx melted against his side, muscles relaxing one at the time. And then. 

“What’s his kid like?” Nyx asked, blinking up at Cor and then squinting. “Mancipo, I mean. Do you know?” 

Cor arched an eyebrow. 

“Dare I ask why?” 

Nyx wrinkled his nose. 

“’cause the old man is, what? Sixty? Pushing seventy? He’s going to die eventually, right?” Nyx sounded entirely too enthused about the prospect, but then Cor didn’t exactly blame him, considering the kind of… man Arcturus Mancipo was. “Hopefully before you or I do, and then his ideally not as objectively terrible spawn will take his place. Because we somehow still believe genetics are a good way to determine key positions in the government, even though none of those fuckers have a magical crystal of prophecy justifying their existence.” 

Cor put his hands under Nyx’s arms, not unlike how he liked to pick up the cat, and tugged him further into his lap as he sat back up against the headboard. Nyx made a grumbling noise, same as he always did when Cor decided to manhandle him about, but Cor knew damn well he actually liked it, considering he didn’t squirm out of it. The end result was Nyx sitting on his lap with Cor’s hands resting easy on his hips. 

“Stop distracting me,” Nyx said, scoffing even as he leaned in, backed bowed forward, “I’m ranting.” 

“Mhm,” Cor hummed back indolently, and then tilted his head to catch Nyx’s lips with his own. 

The kiss broke into tinier ones, slow and lazy and utterly unhurried. Cor basked in the knowledge that Prompto was tucked safe in the Citadel, entertaining the Prince, something that happened more and more often come Fridays and which neither him nor Nyx could exactly complain about, because… well. Nyx made that sound in the back of his throat, the little jagged moan that seemed to stutter between his lips whenever Cor did something particularly good to him. 

Then Nyx’s phone shrieked in his pocket, a very distinct, dreadful ringtone. 

“I’m going to kill him,” Nyx whispered, lips brushing against Cor’s as he did, his eyes closed. 

“But he’s a mostly okay kid,” Cor taunted back, and resisted the urge to smirk when Nyx headbutted him gently, pressing forehead to forehead, before dramatically bouncing back. 

“What did you _do_ ,” Nyx deadpanned into the phone, shoving his free hand over Cor’s mouth. 

Cor felt rather proud of himself, considering he resisted the urge to lick him. He contented himself with tracing slow, soothing circles with his thumbs on Nyx’s hips, waiting for whatever disaster Tredd had caused had been assessed and sorted out to Nyx’s satisfaction. Which involved one dreadfully chipper call to Monica and a deadpan tongue-lashing for Luche, before Nyx hung up, stared at his phone morosely and then threw it onto the other side of the bed. He stared down at Cor, as if daring him to comment, and reluctantly pulled his hand off Cor’s mouth. 

“I mean-” Cor began, eyebrows arched, and laughed when Nyx leaned in to cut off the taunt with his mouth, kissing with more teeth than lips. 

All in all, it wasn’t a terrible outcome. 

“I’m going to murder him,” Nyx moaned into Cor’s mouth, when his phone started ringing again. Cor snickered and nudged him over to reach across the bed and recover his screeching phone. “ _What now?”_ Nyx made a face best described as the embodiment of disgruntled paternal disapproval, and growled into the phone: “Fine, but I will take my pound of flesh for this.” 

And then he hung up. 

Cor didn’t ask. He didn’t have to, he just settled back and watched Nyx glower at his phone ineffectively, and then sighed, shifting back until he was sitting on Cor’s thighs again, very carefully avoiding to meet his eyes. 

“Don’t… don’t even start,” he said, poking at the number pad of his phone, which he only did when he was procrastinating calling someone. “He needs to sit finals tomorrow, okay? I just need him to be done with school already.” Cor did not grin. Not with his mouth anyway. Nyx shoved a hand at his face anyway. “Hi, Monica. I need another favor.” 

Cor amused himself watching Nyx’s expression shift through emotions as he chatted up Monica, because one of his favorite things about Nyx was the fact he was always so expressive. You always knew where you stood with Nyx, his entire face was right there, telling you so. About ten minutes later – and one solemn offer to buy her a drink – Nyx ended the call and, after careful consideration, set his phone on top of his pillow on the other side of the bed. 

“All misbehaving children accounted for?” Cor asked, eyebrows arched, and did absolutely grin when Nyx spluttered. 

“They’re not my _kids_ ,” Nyx snarled defensively, leaning back when Cor leaned in, arms falling around his waist once more. Nyx sniffed disdainfully. “ _My_ kids know how to behave themselves.” 

“ _Our_ kids know how to hide evidence, more like,” Cor snorted rather unkindly, and then dove in for a kiss when Nyx failed to choke back the laugh entirely. 

Cor enjoyed the feeling of Nyx laughing into his mouth, and then melting as they stumbled back into the rhythm again. It was nice to have an evening all to themselves. Nyx seemed to agree wholeheartedly, considering the way he kept rolling his hips and letting Cor feel the muscles of his back relaxing under his hands. 

And then his phone rang again, and those muscles bunched up again at once. 

“I am a good person,” Nyx whispered against Cor’s lips, forehead pressed against his and eyes still firmly closed, “I pay _taxes_. I don’t deserve this.” 

Cor snickered against his mouth. 

“He’s not going to stop calling until you answer,” he said, with a well founded certainty, considering that was Nyx’s ringtone for Libertus. 

“Being right is not going to get you laid tonight, smartass,” Nyx snorted, and then pulled back enough so he could reach a hand and grab his phone. “Lib, I love you, brother,” Nyx said, as soon as he pressed the button to accept the incoming call, “but you need to stop cock fucking blocking me right now.” 

Cor spluttered a laugh and pressed his hands to his face to keep from cackling out loud at that. Nyx looked down at him disdainfully as he waited for Libertus to stop spluttering, and then made a face as Libertus hissed at him things Cor couldn’t hear. 

“Oh, c’mon, no,” Nyx whined, sitting back on Cor’s thighs, “I took off the stupid boots, dammit, it’s officially _me_ time now.” 

But as he sighed about it, he slid off Cor’s lap, and instead laid against his side, looking petulant even though the gesture itself made Cor quite certain he’d already capitulated to whatever Libertus wanted. Libertus was part of that very select, exclusive club of maybe four people in the world – Cor had come to the startling realization that he numbered among them around the time he’d imploded under stress and Nyx had, rather than done the sensible thing and left him, sat with him on the edge of the roof and smoked a whole carton of cigarettes while they stared at their feet and the void beneath them – that Nyx Ulric would do anything for, if asked. It was one of the main reasons why Cor avoided at all costs to directly ask Nyx for anything, if he could help it. Nyx did a fair bit as it was, all on his own. 

“So here’s the thing,” Nyx said, once he ended the call, looking up at Cor wryly. “I know we were planning to ruin the sheets tonight, and I don’t want you to think this means I don’t want to fuck you until my knees give out, but I need you to shower and get dressed and look… not formal but like. Fancier than normal but not Citadel fancy.” Cor arched an eyebrow, not bothering to articulate the question. Nyx licked his lips. “Libertus is bringing Letho home for dinner and it’d mean a lot to me if you’d be there with me.” Nyx stared up at him and licked his lips again, smiling nervously. “I mean, it’ll probably mean a lot to him, too. You know. Once he’s ready to admit it, so. About a year or two from now.” 

Cor leaned in to kiss him, rather than make a despairing comment about the frankly bizarre way Galahdians handled food and dinners and just… sharing food with people. It didn’t matter how weird Cor thought it was, honestly. It was the way they did things and it mattered to Nyx, and his brother, who despite being an asshole, was still one of Cor’s steadiest drinking buddies. Possibly even his friend, at this point. Possibly. Libertus was pricklier than a cactuar and about as likely to own up his feelings. 

“I reserve the right to tease your brother,” Cor told him, because it was the truth, “relentlessly.” 

Nyx grinned. 

“I expect nothing less.” 

* * *

Cor didn’t actually need to do too much teasing, to be honest. 

After all, Crowe was there and she seemed to have everything well in hand, including the perpetually flushed redhead sitting next to her that kept looking at Cor nervously before smiling shyly and sinking back up against Crowe’s side. 

“Yeah, we’re all gay here,” Crowe said bluntly, pointing to herself and Nyx, “we’re like. Super gay. So gay, you have no idea.” 

“ _So_ gay,” Nyx snorted, eyes dancing, as Letho did her best to not burst out laughing. 

She was such a weirdly good match for Libertus, though, that Cor kept expecting to feel surprised or shocked or whatever the hell had made Nyx choke on his tongue the first time he’d heard about it, a couple years back, and all he got instead was the unyielding feeling that he was late to a realization that should have been obvious from the start. 

He was glad for them, honestly. 

They deserved their happiness. 

“Yeah, so anyway, he’s like the weirdo straight sibling,” Crowe went on, pointing at Libertus, who had an expression on his face best described as the bastard love child of outrage and desperate embarrassment, “so you gotta keep that in mind. He was raised on our gayness.” 

“Bisexuality is a thing,” Cor pointed out quietly, eyes dancing and expression demure, and refused to wilt under the murderous glare he found himself subjected to. 

“You’re _not_ helping,” Libertus hissed at him, as Letho lost the battle and buried her laughter into her hands. 

“Lies and slander, Cor is the best at helping,” Crowe pointed out and reached around Nyx’s back to fist-bump him. 

Cor sat there and watched Nyx’s brother wilt and writhe under the teasing, and hoped the bit of awe nesting in his gut at the realization he felt right at home where he was wasn’t showing all over his face. 

Libertus certainly had no reason to let him live it down, if that was the case. 

* * *

Cor found a letter on his desk, come next Monday. 

It was short and firm and to the point, like all the letters by its writer were. He finished reading and immediately set to read it again, feeling weirdly like he’d been told the punchline of a joke, but no one had bothered to share the set up. 

He read it one third time, because it was short and unceremonious and he needed to be sure it hadn’t changed while he wasn’t looking, even though he’d never stopped looking at it. 

Then he folded it up, slid it into his pocket and hoped Nyx would know what to do about it, because he certainly didn’t. 

At least, he supposed, he wasn’t expected to reply. 

* * *

Noctis had two afternoons free every week, Tuesdays and Fridays. 

Fridays were exclusively the realm of videogames and movies and any other way he could come up with, to spend time with Prompto. Nyx had long made peace with the fact their living room was often the site of royal playdates, because it was now an undeniable fact that their son was the Prince’s best friend. Cor knew, despite the slow boil panic that always assaulted him about the notion, that Nyx had a tremendously vast corner of his soul dedicated purely to be fond of the young Prince. Mostly because Noctis was quiet and solemn and weirdly mischievous in utterly delightful ways, pretty much always. Nyx somehow always ended up making distressed noises in the back of his throat, carefully out of sight from the boys, whenever Noctis’ _Lucis Caelum-ness_ shone through in ways that his ridiculous hero-worship of the King didn’t let him fully grasp. Cor didn’t laugh only because Nyx would be genuinely upset about it. 

It was nice, though, for Cor to have solid evidence that he wasn’t just horribly biased on his assessment of the boy. 

He _was_ a good boy, his not-sister’s son. He’d managed somehow to fulfill the one promise he’d never actually made out loud, to make sure no one fucked up that poor kid. 

Tuesdays, though, were a tossup between Cor and Regis, when it came to Noctis’ time. 

Regis had priority, of course, and Cor was quietly impressed by Regis’ stubbornness and the fact he tried his best to keep his Tuesdays open wide past noon, for the sake of spending time with his son. Most of the time they took Cor along with them, hanging out in the background, a token satellite guard, as they walked the gallery floors of the Citadel or explored the gardens or even ventured out to eat lunch in one of the mess halls well below the royal floors. 

But even if he tried his best, sometimes the Kingdom demanded the attention of its King, and on those Tuesdays that Regis would find himself stuck in his office with Clarus, looking after paperwork or entertaining pushy members of his council, he would give Cor a sharp nod and excuse him from his duties for the day. Because Regis never knew if he would be able to keep the appointment, and Noctis would be waiting for him outside his office, regardless. So Cor had to fill in, and entertain the Prince in his father’s absence. 

On _his_ Tuesdays, Cor took Noct on quiet little explorations of his city, that no one else would let him have – too dangerous, too unglamorous, too unclean – though three out of seven times, they ended up at the large lake in the remnants of a forest turned park, so close to the edge of the Wall, that someone was bound to get fired if anyone ever found out that was Noctis’ favorite hangout in the entire city. It was in that lake that Noctis had first learned to fish and he’d found himself developing a taste for it until it became a dear, favorite pastime. Regis never questioned Cor on where he took his son when he took him away from the safety of the Citadel and let him loose under his watch; Regis was reasonably certain that anywhere Cor took Noctis would be safe enough, purely by virtue of Cor being there. Clarus certainly wouldn’t agree, though. Of course he didn’t, he was nervous and suspicious, and if he knew the places Cor had shown the young Prince, and all the terrible things he’d taught him, along the way, he’d probably burst an ulcer on the spot. Which was why Regis and Cor kept the arrangement as an unspoken agreement between friends, nearly brothers, who absolutely did not need words to muddle things up. 

“Look, Luca!” Noctis said, bringing over his catch, a spotted Lucian carp about twelve inches long, “it’s a different pattern!” 

The thin, withered old man sitting with Cor on a bench by the lake, who these days answered to Luca – and once upon a time, called himself Lucius Amicitia, Shield of the King – smiled benignly at Noctis as he examined the squirming fish, nodding his approval. 

“Excellent catch, my boy,” Lucius said, patting Noctis’ shoulder encouragingly. “Dawns are tricky to snag! But they always come in pairs, so why don’t you go and try to get its mate?” 

Noctis, blue eyes almost grey in the afternoon sun, sweaty and nondescript in his fishing gear, nodded solemnly, like a knight of old being tasked the impossible by his liege. 

“I can try,” he offered, and flashed Cor a tiny smile – Cor nodded in what he hoped was an encouraging fashion – before he scurried back to the shore and mercifully out of earshot. 

“Clarus thinks I’m dead,” Lucius said, sinking back inside his bones now that he didn’t have Noctis’ eyes on him – Cor always marveled, really, how much lively the old Lord Amicitia looked, whenever Mors’ grandson was around – and kept his gaze on the boy. “He’s happier that way, I reckon.” 

“He’s your grandson,” Cor pointed out, as he’d been doing so for the past seventeen years and change, that he’d been trying to convince Lucius to quit being stubborn and go back to his family. 

Clarus had obviously inherited his stubbornness from him, Cor was sure, but Mors was long dead, and so was Clarus’ mother, and deep in his soul Cor refused to accept the possibility that Clarus was callous enough to still be bitter about the fact his father had loved his King the way he’d been meant to love his mother. 

“He’s an Amicitia,” Lucius said, with that particular tang of self-deprecating disdain that made Cor feel thirty years younger. “He doesn’t need an old broken shield to muddle up his world. And besides,” he added, with the wry, awkward smile that made Cor give in every time, and let the old man have anything he wanted, “someone ought to teach Mors’ kid to fish. Six know Reggie won’t.” 

Cor looked over at Noct, minding his lure with singular tenacity, and politely gave Lucius time to compose himself. He wondered, as he always did every time he ended up sitting on that bench, watching Lucius Amicitia look after Noctis and teach him all the nuances of fishing, if Noctis would have liked to learn the skill from the person who actually had it – Mors – as opposed to the one who only learned it by watching. Noctis had a very real talent for it, and he was enthusiastic about fishing in a way that he wasn’t about many things, except perhaps videogames and whatever ridiculous scheme he’d cooked up with Prompto at that point. Mors had shared that enthusiasm, but in that muted, awkward way of his, that so very few people ever learned to see for what it was. 

It was always bittersweet for Cor, to think of his old King. 

Mors had been… strange, halfway between mad genius and a fey, otherworldly creature who found human concerns to be either inconsequential or flat out incomprehensible. He’d been sharp and vicious and very poignantly not cruel, just pragmatic. But there had been an edge to him, too, something _odd_ about the way his eyes would narrow sometimes, and he would cling stubbornly to details or people or choices and be an utter nightmare about it, and only until much, much later did it become obvious why. Mors had known things, always, with dead certainty and no reasonable explanation for _why_ , it just was how it was. Those close enough to him to see the depth of his designs had always admired the thoroughness of them, the precise consideration for consequence and reckoning behind each choice. 

Cor hadn’t been there, when he’d died. He’d been dispatched – _I’m not the King you serve anymore, let’s not waste time pretending otherwise_ – and sent to Regis’ side, who’d sat with him on the tallest balcony of the Citadel, and admitted the bright light of the Wall, pouring off the Crystal up in a beam right before them, was probably going to kill him sooner rather than later. But apparently while Cor sat with Regis and kept him company during his first real confrontation with his own mortality, Mors had told Lucius he wasn’t allowed to die with him. 

Because Lucius needed to stick around and teach Mors’ grandson how to fish. 

When Cor had come back to Insomnia, once he was no longer sick at the thought of Regis and Aulea being married to each other, and once Sylvia was done threatening to marry him off for his trouble… When he’d come back, Clarus had already declared his father dead, lost forever, never to be found again. Cor had found Lucius in a gutter four hours afterwards, blind drunk and destitute to the point of pity. Lucius refused to go back, of course, and Cor refused to let him kill himself so dramatically, if nothing else because Lucius Amicitia had been the first person to be kind to Cor, without mockery. Lucius had disapproved of Mors’ abrupt decision to pick up a scrawny, half-dead, half-feral kid was his personal guard. But he hadn’t been mean to Cor because of it. So Cor had tried, in his own way, to be kind back. It sort of worked out. He paid Lucius’ rent and bills and brought him Noctis every few weeks, and accepted the fact it wasn’t his place to tell anyone any truth they weren’t willing to look for themselves. 

“You shouldn’t worry,” Lucius told him, placing a hand on Cor’s shoulder and snapping him out of his memories almost jarringly. “He’ll be a magnificent Shield.” 

He couldn’t help but ask. 

“How do you know?” 

Lucius looked at Noctis, jaw set, feet firmly planted on the pier and fishing rod longer than he was tall firmly grasped in his hands. He smiled a ghost of his old smiles, the ones that were full of exasperated adoration for his King. 

“Because he’ll serve a magnificent King,” Lucius said, just as Noctis pulled back the rod sharply and caught his reward with a dramatic flair, “he won’t stand to be anything less.” 

Noctis was already rushing to them. 

“Luca! Luca, I got it!” 

Cor chewed on his thoughts and knew better than to voice them, but still. They weighted on him. 

* * *

Orpheus Argentum was coming to Insomnia… and he wanted to meet Prompto. 

Nyx took it better than Cor had expected him to, honestly, which was a little meanspirted of him, but that was mostly because he didn’t want to admit that he wasn’t taking it very well. 

“He’s not taking away our son,” Nyx told him, in the pained tones of someone who’s not entirely convinced of what they’re saying, but desperately needs to believe it. “He’s not. He’s just...” 

“He remembered he exists,” Cor replied, because that was probably the truth, as far as he could risk a guess, “he remembered you gave him his name and now he’s curious what that means, since he has no children of his own to carry the family name.” 

Then again, while Orpheus had chosen to fight his battles in diplomacy, where his sister had fought them in the field, he had that edge of manic madness that had always made Cor inordinately fond of Lyra. The problem was that with that madness came the unpredictability that made it impossible to really know for sure what she’d been up to. And Cor had known Lyra, like one knew a partner in crime. He’d never known Orpheus very well, beyond the fact he seemed to be everything Lyra wasn’t, right up until he was. Which wasn’t exactly helpful… or encouraging. 

“Please tell me that sounds more ominous than it really is,” Nyx said, sitting on the trunk of Cor’s car next to him, poking at his dinner as they watched the Wall glimmer against the black waters of the docks. 

Cor stared at the weird effect created by the wall sinking into the water, and wondered, not for the first time, if there was such a thing as daemons underwater. It was preferable than actually thinking about the answer to Nyx’s question. 

“It is probably not as ominous as it sounds,” he offered, staring at his plate with a sigh. 

Though the thing was that he had never known Orpheus all that well, except from his sister’s complaining about him and how he cared so much about any number of stupid things. But this was Lyra, who couldn’t be bothered to care about pretty much anything, so one had to take that with a grain of salt. Or at least Cor had, right up until she’d died. 

He was a bad friend, he reckoned, he didn’t think about her as much as he probably should, considering he was raising a kid with her name. 

Lyra had been… difficult. The sort of difficult that Cor himself had been, when he’d been fourteen and feral and then swiftly and unceremoniously recruited to serve the King. Mors had had a taste for the unusual, in those closest to him, which was exactly why people like Cor or Lyra or even Lucius had ended up where they had: given power and freedom to use that power as best they saw fit. Lyra, as Cor remembered her, had been mercurial and unpredictable and a firm believer that the best solution to the problem was not so much blowing up the problem to smithereens as much as blowing up anything within a thirty mile radius of the problem to smithereens. Lyra had been a powder keg of crazy with a sense of humor to match and yet somehow also a good friend to have. And she’d been gone for so long that Cor didn’t really think about her specifically unless forced to by an outside party, even though he read _Argentum_ in Prompto’s grade report every month. 

“You never told me he wanted to keep Prompto,” Nyx said, at length, when they were done eating. “Way back when.” 

Cor shrugged slowly. 

“I didn’t tell you a lot of things, back then,” Cor admitted, not looking at him. “It didn’t… it didn’t seem to matter, at the time.” 

Nyx was quiet for a moment. 

“How did you know?” 

Cor blinked and risked a look at him, and swallowed hard when he found Nyx staring at him, blue eyes gone dark in the late evening. 

“What?” Cor asked back, not quite nervous, not quite sure he shouldn’t scream. 

“How did you know it was the right thing to do, to let me keep Prompto?” Nyx asked, frowning. “Orpheus is the King’s ambassador to Accordo. I was a penniless, legally dead disaster crashing in your couch. Most people would have thought Prompto would have been better off with him rather than me.” 

Cor felt the strange urge to tell Nyx he’d just known, and avoid explaining altogether. It would be less mortifying. But at the same time, the way Nyx was looking at him, it felt wrong not to. Cor shrugged awkwardly. 

“You clearly cared about the boy,” he said, which was a very polite way of wording the obvious, “Orpheus seemed to care more about the _idea_ of the boy, than anything else.” 

Nyx frowned. 

“But you didn’t _know_ , for sure.” 

Cor stared at him for a moment and then looked away. 

“Yeah, I sort of did.” 

Well, he’d hoped anyway. Because he’d spent five months trailing after Nyx and watching him patiently and lovingly care for his boy, even when he cried and hissed and clung to his hair so hard it was a miracle Nyx’s braids had made it to Insomnia after all. But he didn’t know how to say that without sounding weird for having noticed it. After all, back then… well, it wasn’t like it was now, of course. They’d barely known each other. 

“Cor,” Nyx said, and then kissed him when Cor looked back at the sound of his name, and snickered when Cor made a small noise of surprise at the sudden gesture. “I hope you understand that you’re stuck with me, then, and it’s entirely your fault.” 

Cor was well aware, at this point, but rather than said so, simply shrugged and scooted over to lean against Nyx’s side. Given the ease with which Nyx wrapped an arm around him, he figured the intent was well understood. 

* * *

Aranea liked to call on Sundays, early enough it was still morning, technically, but late enough the sun was well up in the sky and she ran no risk of waking up anyone. 

Cor usually took the calls from either the garden or the roof, depending on whether he felt like he needed a smoke to survive the conversation. Today was one of those, in fact, so Cor sat on the edge of the roof with his cellphone caught between his chin and his shoulder and lit up a smoke while Aranea explained in distressing detail the new expedition she’d been hired for. 

“It won’t be too bad,” Aranea said, in that overly confident tone that Cor was keenly familiar with, and knew better than to challenge. “It’ll be a few months, sure, but the coin is worth it, and the fact it’ll let me scout into enemy territory is a plus.” 

“The war is over,” Cor said, even though he was usually the first one to question that statement. “And you quit the Kingsglaive.” 

“Details,” Aranea snorted dismissively. “Once a glaive, always a glaive, Marshal. You should ask your husband for pointers on how to engender loyalty.” 

“Duly noted,” Cor snorted. “Insert generic, prerequesite warning that this is a terrible idea here.” 

“I’m hurt that you wouldn’t even make the effort to come up with a unique one,” Aranea said, grin all over her voice in a way that made Cor grin back on reflex. 

“It’s what happens when you dismiss my concerns before I’m done expressing them,” he deadpanned back. “Waste of time and concerns.” 

“Rude, but true,” she agreed, snickering, before she sobered up. “It’s going to be alright. I know what I’m doing, Dad.” 

“I’m sure it will,” Cor replied with a sigh, “and I know you do, but I am in fact entitled to nag and you will not take that away from me.” 

Only after the words were out of his mouth, did Cor realize he was quoting Cid. Whom Cor liked to call on Saturdays, so early it might as well still be night, because Cid was always up and running at the crack of dawn and didn’t believe in weird things like _sleeping in_. The thought made him snort. 

“What?” Aranea asked, and he could just imagine the squinty, judging look that went along with that question. 

“Nothing,” Cor sighed, “feeling hypocritical.” 

“Well good,” she sighed back, “I hear that’s how you know you’re doing the parenting thing right.” 

Cor missed his cue for a deadpan quip by several seconds, staring down at the garden down below. He swallowed hard. 

“Am I?” 

Aranea snorted, acid and sharp. 

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” She replied, which said something, alright, something forever too brittle and ragged at the edges to be soft. 

Cor basked in it, anyway. 

“Yes, you are.” 

* * *

Since the days of the Founder King, every King or Queen of Lucis had had a Shield. 

A Shield was more than a guardian or a warrior or a protector. A Shield was meant to be a refuge, for the King, the one soul they could trust regardless of the circumstances. The King carried the yoke of the Crystal and its power, and the Shield carried the King themselves, in a strangely tight bond that Cor had always thought was weirdly codependent. They needed each other to survive, to be effective. Cor had witnessed two such pairs and on the eve of the forming of a third, found himself standing before the Crystal in its chamber, displayed bare, for once free of the protective cage of reinforced, enchanted steel that protected it and channeled its power into the vibrant beam of light that fed the Wall around Insomnia. 

Cor had been sixteen, the last time he’d stood in that most sacred, hallowed room and witnessed the naked splendor of the Crystal, that long, long night when Mors, upon Regis’ return from Accordo, defeated and spineless, had resolved to make up for his blunder by pulling back the Wall. The first true night Lucis had faced, in centuries, where daemons roamed free and conquered the land much faster than the Empire. 

Cor marveled at how different the Crystal seemed, now that he knew of its true purpose, and resisted the urge to spit at it purely because it wasn’t his place to curse the Gods. 

He still wanted to, though, something awful. 

“What if it doesn’t work?” Noct asked, voice made small by the sudden, oppressive presence of the Crystal in all its splendor. When he noticed Cor staring at him, he flushed and offered a tiny, despairing shrug. “I’m really bad at magic.” 

Cor opened his mouth to say something, hopefully something encouraging, but he didn’t get the chance. 

“Then we’ll try again,” Gladio said, one eyebrow arched as he ruffled the Prince’s hair in a way that made Noctis squirm and glare at him. “Though I reserve the right to mock you about it, for basically forever.” 

“Shut up,” Noctis commanded, with the petulant tones of a wounded dignity, and flushed brightly when Gladio laughed. “Git.” 

“Brat,” Gladio retorted right back, and dodged a swipe of Noctis’ hands with a grin. 

Cor supposed it was for the best, to be honest. He wasn’t very good at reassuring – Nyx had only been spending fifteen years telling him so – and the fact was that Gladio and Noctis were approximately half an hour away from being bound to each other for life. It bode well for them to start ironing out things on their own. Hopefully. 

The ceremony itself was fairly nondescript. Cor kept expecting words or speeches or grand gestures, and then realized they were unnecessary, with just the reigning King and Shield and their heirs present. Unlike pretty much all other ceremonies led by Regis, this one was not meant to be witnessed at all. This wasn’t a performance at all, and as soon as he stumbled upon that thought, Cor felt keenly uncomfortable with the idea that he was intruding. He knew why Regis would want to have him there, of course, but that did not diminish the sudden sense that he was witnessing something that probably no one but Kings and Shields had seen, in centuries. 

Noctis stood before Gladio for a very long time, holding his hands raised as if to receive an offering, before light finally gathered into a tiny spark between his palms. And the spark grew, shining bright and blue, like the glimmering crystals of the armiger, with ghosts of lightning and frost and flare among them. Noctis held them steady for a moment, as if making sure they would not shatter, and then nodded sharply, once. 

Gladio, shirtless and towering easily above his Prince, nodded right back and then dropped to one knee before him, offering a hand to grasp the magic between Noctis’ own. And then Gladio bowed his head as Noctis clasped his hand hard, beads of sweat boiling all over his brow. Gladio ground his teeth and did not scream, even as the light and the crystals began to crawl up his skin, spreading like cracks on a mirror, or the evenly spaced patterns of a spider’s web. 

Cor pressed against the wall, trying not to sway on his feet as the Crystal hummed in response to the magic Noctis seemed to be pouring straight into Gladio’s body. Across the room, he saw Clarus wrap an arm around Regis’ shoulders and help him upright. 

And then Noctis let go of Gladio’s hand, stepping back and watching the shadow of crystals and magic rush and settle and _sink in_. Gladio let out a gasp, stumbled where he knelt, and then pulled himself upright again, standing tall as the last few lines of the massive, swirling tattoo seared themselves in place. 

“Catch,” Noctis said, blinking up at him, breathing raged but mischievous, and hurled a bolt of lightning at him, that Gladio caught deftly – and mostly instinctively, Cor reckoned – with his bare hand. 

The magic frizzled against his skin, dissipating without a fuss. 

“That’s gonna be fun to play with in the training hall,” Gladio pointed out, slightly out of breath even as he swayed dangerously on his feet. 

Getting pulled into a bear hug by his father was not doing his balance any favors. Cor bit back a snort as it happened, and instead smirked wryly as fathers pulled sons into their arms, and congratulated them on a job well done. Cor kept his respectful distance and tried not to feel as out of place as he knew he was. It was harder than it seemed, but then again, he a lot of experience on that front. 

* * *

Orpheus Argentum arrived a crisp winter morning, and looked exactly like Cor would expect Lyra’s twin brother to look like. He ate lunch with them and was gracious about it, though Cor sincerely doubted he understood the full meaning of the gesture, considering Nyx sat right across from him on the table. He was polite and diplomatic, though that was to be expected, considering what he did for a living, and when the time came to sit alone with Prompto in the living room, Cor let Nyx tug him along back to his office in the basement. 

“I’m a terrible person,” Nyx told him, as they sat around a bottle of the good whiskey that Cor swiped regularly from Regis’ personal stash, “I just spent three hours trying to come up with a valid reason to hate someone who’s been nothing but well-meaning.” 

“Hell and the road to it,” Cor pointed out, running a finger over the rim of his glass. “And you’re not a terrible person.” 

“I’d love to hear how you figure that one out,” Nyx muttered, slumping on the desk, and maybe, Cor realized, he’d miscalculated how badly Nyx was taking the reality of Orpheus being here, versus how well he’d managed the possibility of it happening. 

Cor reached a hand and absently poked his temple, and smiled wryly when dark blue eyes peered at him inquisitively. 

“If you were a terrible person, you wouldn’t need a reason to hate him,” Cor pointed out and poked Nyx’s temple again, when Nyx rolled his eyes at him. “I’m onto you, Ulric, I know you’re the most decent man I know.” 

“Clearly you need to meet more people,” Nyx snorted, trying to joke away the comment, but Cor didn’t want to let him because… because it was true. 

And he was no King and he had no Shield, and he didn’t have magic or insight or prophecy to let him know things in advance and with certainty. He had his own sketchy map of the world, built by taking notes as he stumbled around and got a measure of the people in his life. And perhaps it didn’t matter, that he couldn’t explain the certainty, but there were a few things in his life that Cor considered truths above all else. 

“I’d rather not,” Cor murmured, eyes half-lidded. “I’m good.” 

Nyx swallowed hard and turned the glass in his hand a full rotation, before leaving it on the desk. 

“Are you?” He asked, voice hushed, uncertain, and Cor realized they’d moved past the joke into something else. 

Something larger and scarier and unknown, that spread like a pit at their feet. 

Cor took a moment to finish his drink and put his thoughts in order. 

“Yes,” he said, because it was the truth, simple and pointed and sharp in places, “I am.” 

Nyx seemed to debate with himself for a moment, before he left his glass on the desk and went to sit on him, burying his face into the crook of Cor’s neck. 

“At least that makes one of us.” 

* * *

Despite it all, they survived Orpheus first visit unscathed. They survived all subsequent visits, as well, and sat in the living room after the fact, listening to Prompto share hushed, excited reports of said visits. Orpheus, it seemed, really wasn’t there to take away their son. And Prompto did like the man and enjoyed his company. He certainly enjoyed stories about his mother, to better fill in the blanks that both Nyx and Cor had left with their own, less detailed, less explicit tales about Lyra Argentum and the pandemonium she liked to trail wherever she went. 

It was fine. They were fine. 

“If you’re ever in Altissia,” Orpheus said, later that month, as he stood tall and stiff in their living room, giving his goodbyes, “I’ll be… thrilled to return the hospitality.” He stared at Nyx and then Cor, and then nodded to himself, as if satisfied by his findings. He looked down at Prompto with a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Do be sensible, Prompto.” 

Prompto looked up at him with wide eyes and nodded vigorously. 

“Will do!” He said, and clutched his hands around his gift, “thank you for the watch.” 

“Your mother would have wanted you to have it,” Orpheus said, with a slight twitch of lips that implied the sentiment if not the wording of that had been truth. “If she’d thought about it, at least.” 

Then he’d bowed, just enough to be polite, collected himself, and left, as abruptly as he had arrived, but mercifully without incident. 

“Dad?” Prompto asked, as he helped Cor put together dinner that night, “what’s a saboteur?” 

Well. 

_Almost_ without incident. 

* * *


	20. year xvi

* * *

_year xvi_

* * *

Cor was standing by the pier, when the boat reached Galdin, just as he had said he would. Aranea smirked when she saw him surreptitiously throw away a half-smoked cigarette into the water. 

“Don’t let Prompto catch you doing that,” she said in lieu of a greeting, one eyebrow arched, “he’ll lecture you to death about being mean to the poor fish.” 

Cor snorted, but falling into the hug, when he offered, was all but second nature. Aranea let herself cling a little longer than normal, forehead pressed to his shoulder, and felt her shoulders drop a little. 

“And you?” He asked, arm curling along hers, tugging her away from the pier, “no lectures about insulting the Tidemother?” 

Aranea snorted and shoved him. Because this was Cor, he refused to budge. He even chuckled, the absolute ass. 

“If I was going to bitch about piety,” she said, making sure he was looking before she rolled her eyes with a flourish, “it wouldn’t be about the damn sea snake that literally hates _everything_. I have standards, you know?” She made a point to flick the braids hanging off the neatly tied bow at the back of her head. “ _Our_ patron deity happens to not be a dick.” 

She didn’t miss the twitch upward in the corner of his mouth, at that last bit. Or the way his eyes reflexively turned to the sky for a second, before he shook his head. 

“Mostly,” Cor pointed out, because he knew how she felt about Gods and Oracles and all things divine. 

“Mostly is better than never, I’ll take it,” Aranea sighed dramatically before sobering up. “Thanks… for coming.” 

“You said you wanted to meet Regis.” Cor shrugged. “Might as well save you the trouble of beating up the Crownsguard to get to him.” 

Aranea grinned and shoved him again, lighter this time. 

“You say that,” she replied, walking back to the car, “just ‘cause you know I’d kick their asses in a heartbeat, and there’s nothing they can do about it.” 

“Absolutely,” Cor deadpanned, unmoved, and it made her grin again. “Lunch in Hammerhead? Or straight to Insomnia?” 

Aranea’s smile faded from her mouth, jaw settling into place and look hardening into what Wedge liked to call Concern and she liked to call being fucking responsible. She shook her head. 

“I need to talk to His Majesty about this,” she said, sliding into the passenger’s seat. “I promised I wouldn’t delay.” 

“Fair enough,” Cor replied, not one bit disappointed, and she’d almost hate the way it made her feel reassured she was doing the right thing, if it weren’t for the fact she’d long resigned herself to care what he thought. “You’re staying after that, anyway. There’ll be time to visit Cid later.” 

Aranea refused to admit there was warmth pooling in her gut at the thought. She refused to consider she was coming home. That was sentimental nonsense that got people killed. 

She still smiled, though, and she reached out and punched Cor’s arm for his trouble, when she realized he was smiling too. 

Idiot. 

* * *

The Citadel was still monstrous, and Aranea keenly didn’t like it. It was the kind of target too large to defend properly, not built for siege in the slightest. When she’d told Cor about it, he’d agreed but reminded her anything trying to reach the Citadel would need to get through the Wall first. Aranea very pointedly didn’t mention that all you had to do to get rid of the Wall was murder the King, because Cor actually loved the idiot currently stuck with that job and he wouldn’t appreciate the reminder. 

She’d always been somewhat irritated with Insomnians and their fawning over their Wall, to be honest, and part of her was annoyed that the war had ended before they were forced to act and stop cowering behind it. A good siege, in her opinion, would have been good for the city. Something to remind their lazy, fat Lords and Ladies that they were nothing without the common people they stepped on all the time. Something to make that common people come together and stop fussing about stupid divisions like where they came from or who had money and who didn’t. Aranea was a mercenary, and she’d grown up in the middle of war and famine and disaster. She knew nothing better to foster unity, than a shared foe knocking at one’s door. 

Alas, Insomnia had survived the war without incident and ten years of peace since hadn’t done it any favors. 

Or its Lords and Ladies. 

Oh, god, Aranea loathed their Lords and Ladies. They were all dumb stuck up idiots looking out for themselves at the expense of the people they were supposed to look after. And the system was so old and entrenched in the reality of the city, the King couldn’t do anything about it directly, but instead write more laws and play politics and tug-o-war with the public opinion and just… It was so _dumb_. They were all so fucking dumb it hurt her head sometimes. 

Like right there and then, as she strolled towards the King’s study, bypassing a long line of idiots standing against the wall, and closer to the doors, sitting in ornate chairs pressed against the door, clearly waiting their turn for audience with the King. Quick math in her head told her they each would need to take maybe two minutes of the King’s time, for all of them to meet the King in the remaining three hours left in the King’s day. But while she was sure the people standing would be conscious of that and try their best to be brief, the idiots sitting there with gold and jewels on their fingers and throats would most assuredly not be thoughtful enough for that. They’d want a spectacle, of course. A production. They were meeting the King, after all. More than a few of them, she was sure, would act like the King was the one benefiting from that meeting, not the other way around. 

It made her want to gag. 

“Excuse me,” snarled an old man seated right up against the door to the King’s study, standing up to glare at her when she unceremoniously reached out to enter. “Just who do you think you are?” 

Aranea paused enough to give him a quick up and down – stupidly expensive clothes, check, stupidly unnecessary jewelry to show off he’d never done a single day of actual hard work in his life, check, greying hair to imply he’d been around since the previous’ King’s time, check, arrogant smug snarl on his face, check – and very pointedly rolled his eyes. 

“None of your fucking business,” she replied, pulling the door open and ignoring the sudden purple hue on his face. 

“You–” He snarled, just as she stepped into the room, but his words were cutout sharply by the Crownsguard stationed by the doors, hissing warningly at him.

“Lord Mancipo, Lady Highwind’s arrival was announced by the Marshal himself, please wait until she’s done reporting to the King,” in the hurried, anxious tones of someone trying to prevent An Incident from happening. 

Aranea smiled to herself as she closed the door, not bothering to hear the followup to that. 

“Lady Highwind,” the King said, from behind his desk, all magnanimous and tired and majestic, like all good proper Kings should be. 

Aranea wrinkled her nose as she stepped closer. 

“Still not a Lady,” she pointed out, and plopped down in one of the comfy chairs in front of the desk. “But glad to see you well, Your Majesty.” 

The King smiled at her, the indulgent smile of an uncle, rather than a King, and she knew it and knew what it meant and still reflexively snorted even if it made her cheeks feel warm. 

“Cor told me you were coming back to Insomnia,” the King said, taking pity on her probably, and skipping the personable bits. Aranea almost liked him for that alone. “Said you had something important to discuss with me.” 

Aranea stopped smiling. 

Ten words in, so did the King. 

* * *

Aranea went to sprawl on the couch in Cor’s office, after her meeting with the King. They ordered food and pointedly didn’t talk about that conversation, which was nice, and then Cor told her to go find Nyx and get her job back, which really wasn’t. 

There were hugs, because of course there were, and then Nyx sent her out to find Luche, because _of course_ he did. She even offered Luche a free shot to clean the air and the fucking shithead wouldn’t take it. So there were more hugs instead. And, okay, maybe a kiss. Or two. Or twenty minutes making out in a supply closet, but it wasn’t like she was keeping count. 

Frankly, Aranea was sick and tired of hugs, by the time she found Prompto sulking in the lobby of the shooting range, waiting for his turn and looking like he’d rather go out and wrestle voretooths instead. 

Prompto hugged her, when he saw her. 

Of course he did. 

So many hugs, her skin itched just at the thought. And yet, in the end, she laid in her old bed, in her old room, and sleep came as easy as it used to, before. 

So there was that. 

* * *

“Try again,” Cor said, in that abysmal deadpan of his, somewhere between bored and absent. 

Aranea took ten seconds to pant as hard as she wanted to, then bared her teeth and used her lance to heave herself up and do precisely that. 

Cor parried each blow and continued to very pointedly not give a shit. 

It was a bit demoralizing, really. It’d been a long time, since she’d fought anything, let alone anyone, that she couldn’t handily steamroll. But fighting Cor, even in a spar, was like trying to pick up a fight with a mountain. He never budged. Still, she liked that about him, to be honest. And she liked that he didn’t look down at her for it, only encouraged her to get better. Stronger. 

She’d need to be, with the news she’d brought: something sinister was boiling in the Empire, and it wouldn’t be long, before it overflowed into Lucis. 

It was strange, however, to find herself worrying about it and think of it as home. Because... it was. And that was weird and unheard of, but she’d spent five years wandering around the known world after she left and… and it _was_ home. It was the north in the tiny compass she always kept in the back of her mind. Biggs and Wedge had been insufferable when she finally owned up to it, but they weren’t mad. Aranea supposed part of it was because she was just renting them out to Lucis again and that meant good pay and good beds, but also… also because they weren’t mad at her. For having found a home, when they weren’t there. A family, even. 

“That was fairly good,” Cor muttered, as they walked back towards the showers and the changing rooms, dutifully ignoring the mess of a training ground they left behind, or the Crownsguard idiots having kittens about it. 

“You say that,” Aranea snorted, shaking her head, “but you’re not the one who got the shit kicked out of him.” 

“You _like_ getting the shit kicked out of you,” Cor pointed out, one eyebrow arched. 

“I really don’t,” Aranea muttered, surprisingly honest and kind of sullen, and then took in a deep breath when he tugged her closer so he could press his mouth to the crown of her head. 

She’d make a joke, right then and there, about being gross with sweat and dirt and how stupid it was of him to do that, but she was tired in that bone-deep way that settled like sand in her gut, piling up until it was hard to breathe. 

“Regis will sort it out,” Cor told her, because of course he knew, it was like the inside of Aranea’s head had a glass ceiling only he was allowed to peek into. 

It used to piss her off, when she was younger. When she’d first met him. How dare he know what she was thinking? What she was feeling? How dare he know exactly what she needed to hear without forcing her through the horrors of having to speak of it out loud? 

She’d tried to hate him for it, back when she’d been young and stupid and full of things that made her blood boil and her mouth spew it all out like it could somehow make it better instead of worse. 

She loved him for it, now. Loved that he was solid and unmoving and no matter the fuckery she had to sort through, always, always in her corner. 

“I promised them he would,” she admitted, as she pulled away and did not meet her father’s eyes, “so he damn better do.” 

* * *

It took two weeks for her to receive her summons from the King. 

Those were two weeks she spent roughing up Nyx’s greenest bunch for the sake of making Luche – who was actually the sucker responsible for them – threaten to skin her alive for her troubles. Two weeks of finding herself sprawled on the couch of Cor’s office every other day, telling him the disjointed stories about her trips that she knew damn well could never go into an official report. Two weeks of trying to convince Prompto that he really wasn’t fighter material, because he was still soft and sweet and not ready to face the world outside the Wall, only for him to point out that was the whole point of it. Two weeks of spotty radio relays and Biggs and Wedge promising her everything was well in hand, really, only maybe she should hurry up on her end because it could change with the tide. 

“I can’t take them into the city,” the King had told her, and she would have been angrier if he didn’t look so tired, so worn around the edges, “not now. Not with the way things are going, politically. Not without risking them an entirely different kind of death. But I will take them into Lucis. And I will take them as close to the city as I can make it.” 

“Lestallum?” Aranea guessed, letting herself sound as dubious as she felt, and weirdly comforted by the fact the King did not look offended in the least. 

“Keycatrich, actually,” Regis said, one eyebrow arched when she stared at him. “Lestallum has its own… shall we say, cultural biases? They were left outside the Wall during the last war, they might not be as welcoming as you might hope.” 

“Lestallum has infrastructure,” Aranea deadpanned, “which is really the only thing they need. Y’know, to not fucking _die._ ” 

“I’m aware,” Regis deadpanned right back, and she was keenly reminded the King had known Cor for almost thirty years now. “That is why I chose Keycatrich in the first place,” he went on, and pulled a map onto the desk, to prove his point. “Keycatrich was lost when the Wall pulled back, its population scattered to join Leide’s hunter ranks, or, in the case of the owners of the actual land, simply heading back to their properties in Insomnia proper, back under the Wall.” When Aranea didn’t seem very impressed by that, Regis shrugged. “That should be enough to tell you the kind of infrastructure buried beneath the ruins of the city, which as Nyx tells me, despite the aesthetics, remains well preserved and easily accessible. It will be a suitable place to create a settlement, once the Kingsglaive finishes mapping out the trench and cleaning it of daemons.” 

“All well and good,” Aranea replied, “except I know Lucian landowners; as soon as it becomes clear the area is inhabitable again, they’ll make a fuss and try to claim ownership of it. And well, the law’s the law, isn’t it?” 

She expected many things, but not to see the King smile at her. It was half paternal-like pride, that she would keep up and make that kind of rebuke; the kind of smile Cor gave her when she figured out a new technique or showed off tactical prowess. The rest of it was the sort of childishly gleeful smile of someone who’s planned a prank for years and will finally see it to its conclusion. 

“That would be a concern, yes, were it not for the fact they were very eager to be rid of ownership of useless land like that, selling for almost nothing soon after it was abandoned,” Regis explained, and then shrugged innocently when she squinted at him. “Keycatrich belongs to me, privately, not as part of the office. I will be more than happy to pass along ownership to its new inhabitants, when the time comes.” 

Aranea stared and stared and at long last Regis seemed to take pity on her because he laughed and reached a hand to pat hers, a little benign little gesture of consolation that only served to make her brain frizzle a little more. 

“Do you think they will be amenable to come in those terms?” 

Aranea knew they would. 

She didn’t say so, though, purely because she knew how much it sucked to have someone speaking in your name instead. 

* * *

“Don’t feel bad about it,” Cor told her, as they sat next to each other at the bar in Galdin, waiting for her ship to arrive. “That’s just how Regis works.” 

Aranea stared down at her drink – it was purple and red and iridescent, and also felt like a kick to the teeth after the first glass – and swirled her straw for the sake of watching it look pretty. 

“I would serve that man,” she said, somewhat perturbed by the words coming out of her mouth, “willingly, without being paid for it.” She paused and looked up at Cor with a squint, like this revelation was somehow his fault. “And I would _like_ it.” 

Cor laughed, like someone reliving an old memory, and nodded as he took a swing of his beer. 

“I know.” 

He promised to be there, when she came back, and she believed him. 

She believed in a whole lot of things now, she realized, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. 

* * *

Aranea reached Keycatrich four months later, with nearly twenty thousand people at her heels, including women, children and elders. It had not been a fun trek, in any sense of the word. 

In the beginning – so maybe about nineteen months before – she’d first heard about the refugee crisis in the Empire territories on her way to investigate what they were up to and instead finding a fucking wreck on fire quickly set to expand. Somewhere along the way she’d shifted from pure mercenary work, usually killing big ugly things for the sake of glorified tourists that had enough coin to pay for the service, to doing refugee round up and extraction from the fringe towns in the continent that were all very consciously packing up their bags and fleeing an explosion of daemons and utter, dreadful radio silence from Gralea itself. 

Aranea couldn’t take them to Lucis, which would have been easy, because she was keenly, annoyingly aware that was a political mess in the process, so she’d taken them to Accordo instead. 

It turned out Accordo was buckling under its own refugee crisis, considering it seemed to be the one area of the Empire that had escaped the sudden daemon infestation. Accordo would not take more refugees than it already had. Not imperial ones, not Lucian ones. The fact there were Lucian outcrops of refugees in Accordo caught her attention, so of course she’d had to investigate it. And when that investigation – which involved a lot of screaming and taking jobs for dumb, posh Altissians that wanted to explore the catacombs of the city which were either flooded with water or daemons or both – had eventually led her to a strip of volcanic islands frankly so fucking bare and inaccessible that no one had bothered to claim them as their own, except for a bunch of Galahdian tribes that had somehow ended up there in the wake of Galahd’s fall, she almost hadn’t been surprised. 

Of course they’d stick their guns and figure out how to survive on the rocky shores where nothing really wanted to grow unless it had a metaphorical gun to its head. 

Of course. 

She had beads in her hair, though, and that was enough to avoid getting shot for her trouble. It didn’t make them appreciate her ideas any better, but they were Galahdian, so of course she didn’t expect them to. 

She had screamed and argued and yelled about things, all the things that were wrong and broken with the world – their world, and in that way, _her_ world – and didn’t fucking stop until there camp was up and sentries were running even though there were bright lights everywhere. People had died, on the way here. Lots of them. Because they were sick, because they were weak, because life was fucking unfair and they were at the wrong time in the wrong place. She wanted to avoid any more losses, if she could. 

She would. 

She curled up atop a lamppost, lance resting on her shoulder, and watched the sea of tents and people settling in beneath her. 

She wanted to feel proud of it, of all that had cost her to get them here. Of all that she’d done to make it happen. 

She felt responsible instead, and had the strangest certainty the King would share that kindred feeling, if she told him so. 

* * *

Galahdians were there in the morning. 

Not _her_ Galahdians, the ones she’d spent nearly a year yowling at because they were stubborn and stupid and which argued with her almost for sport these days. Her Galahdians, instead, the ones that had walked with her into the Storm and had seen her first braid beads into her hair. The ones that followed after Nyx and pissed him off by not arguing with him nearly as much as he thought they should. 

They were there in the morning, with food and tools and a lot of hands to help. 

“You did a good thing,” Nyx told her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and tucking her up against his side, when the reunions started. 

Aranea watched the tears and the hugs and the raw vulnerability on display and tried to imagine how that felt. Instead she wrapped her arm around Nyx’s waist and hummed in the back of her throat, careful to not look at him in the eye. 

“I’m good at what I do.” 

* * *

Aranea sat by one of the makeshift fire pits to drink some coffee and figure out orders for the day crew, before she crawled into her sleeping bag for the day. She was keenly aware she could go home – it was a twenty seven minute drive, she’d timed it, the first time she’d come to see the site, before she went back to collect her ridiculous mess of refugees and mercenaries and herd their stupid asses home – and sleep in her bed. She probably should, all things considered, she’d sleep better there than in a threadbare sleeping bag worn by years of passing around her men, and which she always managed to park right on top the sharpest, pointiest rocks available. 

She didn’t want to, though. 

She didn’t want a bed if they didn’t have one, and it sounded stupid even to her own ears but when she’d told Cor, he’d shrugged and told her that’s how she knew she was doing the right thing. She’d kicked him for his trouble and he’d laughed like it was nothing. 

“Is it okay, if I bring friends tomorrow?” Prompto asked her, sitting right next to her and drinking warm milk instead, because he’d taken a sip of her coffee and made a face. “To help, I mean. They want to, but they don’t know if they’re allowed.” 

Aranea wrote the King a letter – okay, a note, on a napkin, that she shoved into Cor’s pocket and made him promise to deliver without reading it – about the kind of fucking lousy job he was doing if his people thought they needed permission to help. She told Prompto to bring whoever was willing to lend a hand, ruffled his hair – he squawked in outrage – and went over to look over their budget with Biggs, while ignoring Wedge’s snoring in the background. 

Prompto came back the next day with the Prince of Lucis at his heels and Aranea didn’t scream about the consequences of _that_ , because the lanky noodle of a boy parked himself in the kitchens and served plates for six hours without complaint. He came back the day after, and then three days after that, and by then he knew people’s names around the camp and had turned his security detail in more hands to help instead. She hadn’t meant to arrive during summer break. Not for the sake of the break itself, rather, but because summer was kinder and better suited to built and settle in, so by the time winter hit they’d be ready for it. But it worked out in that the Prince decided to spend his free time at the camp, which had to be forbidden in all possible ways, considering Keycatrich was very much outside the Wall, and Aranea was almost sure Prompto wasn’t exactly forcing his best friend to stick around and help. 

Aranea had the sinking feeling she was going to like the little shit, one he was done growing, which meant her service to Lucis might actually extend to their next King as well. 

She wasn’t nearly as mad about it as she thought she should rightfully be. 

* * *

Cor did deliver her letter, it turned out. 

Some six months later, apparently, but still. By then Keycatrich was unequivocally a settlement, and people were moving on from panicking about survival to actually figuring out how to build a life there. The flow of volunteers had thinned somewhat, but they weren’t quite as needed as they had been, those first few weeks. Aranea herself still dropped by every other day, if nothing else to check on the Glaive patrols to keep daemons out of the settlement. 

The King, because he was an asshole of depths she was just starting to truly understand, knighted her for her trouble and even threw a loud, pompous party about it that Cor gave her explicit permission to skip. 

She went out to play pool with Luche and the Glaives, instead, and formally introduced them to her men. It went about as well as she expected it to go, which is to say she had to bail four of them out of jail and woke up in the morning, naked under the bulk of Luche’s weight on her back and his fucking frozen toes on her ankles. 

It felt great. 

Then Luche pointed out she was now _actually_ a Lady and she dumped the entirety of her coffee on his face in a futile attempt to escape the reality of that. 

* * *


	21. year xvii [cor]

* * *

**_year xvii [cor]_**

* * *

Cor surveyed the room with the careful blank look of a hunter gathering intel on his prey. His eyes lingered on Gladio’s form, stretched long on the bed, blood stained all over his shirt, and both Prompto and Noctis hovering around, even if Noctis’ magic had already taken care of the worst of the wound. Gladio would not lose his eye, over this, though the tightness around Clarus’ lips told Cor that had been a close thing. 

Noctis was fine, of course, combined efforts from Prompto’s adrenaline-fueled reactions and Gladio’s calculated defending of his Prince had made sure of it. Prompto would be fine, he’d told Cor, as soon as he was allowed to go puke in the bathroom and maybe cry for a solid hour. There was something tense and screaming, inside Cor’s soul, because he recognized the slow realization in Prompto’s eyes, that it was his doing another life had been snuffed. And maybe he hadn’t been so outright as Cor would be, sword in hand, but there was a would-be assassin sprawled on the sidewalk, head burst open like a melon, and it had been Prompto’s doing that had landed him there. 

“He cracked,” Ignis said, limping out of the makeshift interrogation room he’d made out of his study. 

Cor did not peer into the room to see what had taken to break the one surviving assailant. If Sylvia was the Ocean, she had certainly raised a Tempest, in the quiet, green-eyed boy that grimaced at Cor and still managed to consider political ramifications even as he spoke. 

“It’s… unfortunate,” Ignis said, looking up at Cor expectantly, “the King will need to get involved.” 

They were young, all of them. Far too young to know blood so soon. Cor licked his lips and held himself together because he knew someone would need to be, once they all ran out of steam and cracked open under stress. Everyone cracked open under stress, the first time they found themselves fighting for their own lives and preserved them at the cost of someone else’s. 

Everyone. 

“They targeted his son,” Cor said, purposefully going for filial rather than political, “he was already involved.” 

* * *

“Dad said I could quit,” Prompto said, sitting on the edge of the roof, legs bouncing off against the wall as he stared down at the garden. 

“You can,” Cor replied, as he went to sit next to him, and very purposefully did not say anything about the cigarette in Prompto’s hand. 

He probably should, he reckoned, say something about it. Or say something about the fact the boy had chosen a perch right at the edge of a two-floor fall that couldn’t end with anything but pain. Nyx would, Cor knew, because Nyx was the sort of person who had it in them to be a parent. Nyx was good with knowing when to push and when to pull, and overall, it was easy to see what a good job he’d done so far, considering Prompto had turned out alright in the end. Cor knew he wasn’t parent material and had known it for years. 

“What if,” Prompto began, and then stopped, licking his lips as he thought about it for a moment. “What if I don’t want to quit?” 

Cor hummed in the back of his throat. 

“It’ll happen again,” he said, and then carefully pulled out the battered for-stressful-days-only pack of smokes he kept in the armiger, not looking at Prompto as he lit one up. “You’re close to Noctis, that means you’ll be close by next time it happens. And there will always be a next time. And you’ll always end up making that kind of choice, and not really knowing if it was the right choice or not.” 

“Yeah,” Prompto agreed, staring, and then let out a long sigh and looked away. “But if I quit, I’m still going to be there, when it happens. It just means I won’t be able to make a difference, next time. And I would have to live with that.” 

Cor snorted. 

“That’s what it means,” he said, puffing out a cloud of smoke above their heads, “to love the royal family.” 

“But you don’t regret it,” Prompto guessed, voice earnest and hopeful. 

Cor wished he could lie to him about that. Nyx would probably thank him later, if he did. But despite the fact he’d never really thought himself as someone who should have them, he had children now. And the cardinal rule he followed when it came to them, for better or for worse, was not to lie to them. 

He thought of Aulea, instead. And of Mors. And Regis and Noctis. And all the many, many times his life would have been made much easier to bear, if he hadn’t loved them all, the way he did. 

“No,” he said, chuckling wryly, “I really don’t.” 

“I don’t know what’s the right thing to do, in the long run,” Prompto admitted, and then inched closer so he could lean against Cor’s shoulder. “But I do know which choice I will regret, for sure. So, I’m going to choose the other one, which I might regret anyway, and tell myself I did the best I could.” 

“Sounds like a solid plan,” Cor said, nodding slowly. And then smirked, nudging his shoulder against Prompto’s. “Wanna go tell your Dad?” 

Prompto snorted. 

“Yes, let me go in, reeking of smoke, and tell him I’ve decided I do want to kill people for a living.” He made a face. “I’m sure that’ll go swimmingly.” 

Cor shrugged. 

“You’ll never know.” 

* * *

“I’m not angry,” Nyx said, later that night, while they sat on the steps to the garden and smoked at their leisure because they were collectively pretending not to notice Prompto had sneaked out to visit Noctis, even though Aranea was on guard duty at the Citadel and had helpfully sent them a heads up about it. “Not at him, not at you. I just wish he wouldn’t have to make that choice.” 

“He loves Noctis, though,” Cor pointed out, and remembered a small boy sharing ice-cream with the Prince and swearing colorfully when he cried. 

“I know he does,” Nyx snorted and tugged Cor closer, fingers curling around the back of his neck, nails scraping soothingly along the edge of his hair, “he loves him almost as much as you love Regis, and that’s no small feat.” 

“Regis is worth loving,” Cor replied, even as he relaxed against Nyx’s side. “And worth serving.” 

“He is, and his son will be too,” Nyx agreed, snorting. “I just acknowledge the fact it’d be easier for our son, if he didn’t.” Then he laughed more fully, and the sound unraveled along with it some of the tension in him, Cor could tell, just by the way his body relaxed under him. “Though I don’t know that I’m surprised. No one in this family knows how to do things easy.” 

“Too late to start teaching the kids that,” Cor pointed out, and managed a little grin when he caught Nyx’s face on that split second before he cracked up again. “I don’t suppose you want to start over.” 

“You’re way too late for takebacks,” he said, tugging Cor up for a kiss. “And honestly, at my age, my hips can’t take another kid, you know?” 

Cor laughed, and knew they’d be alright, after all. 

But in the back of his head, an idea lingered. 

* * *

Cor did not, as a rule, take pleasure in the suffering of others. 

He’d seen enough misery in his life to really bask in that sort of thing. He knew it, in his soul, what despair tasted like, having gorged himself on that cup far too many times to count. Having done all the terrible things he’d done in his life, Cor had reached the conclusion, upon his third return to Insomnia, to embrace this clear shortcoming of his. Even if Titus had mocked him for it, at the time, and told him they had a duty, as generals of Lucis, to relish in the losses of their enemies. But then, Cor had returned to Insomnia a fifth time, and known Titus true colors by then, so he didn’t linger too much on the pointed criticisms of a traitor he didn’t even get to kill himself. 

And yet. 

“No,” Regis said, calm and quiet and all the deadlier because all the Court could hear was the ghost of his Father in the shape of his tone, “stand down, Cor.” 

Cor realized he had his sword in his hand, his eyes in the process of sizing up his prey, and an entire section of rational thought perfectly replaced by white noise. It took him two tries to force his sword back into the void, and three to force his eyes away from the withered old man begging before Regis’ throne. 

“I will not kill you for treason, Lord Mancipo,” Regis went on, soft like the rope around a convict’s neck, “even though it is my right to do so.” He smiled. “Death would be yet another thing you’d foster on someone else, to shoulder for you, and I’d rather this punishment stayed with you, and weighted _only_ on you.” Regis waved a hand, gesture dismissive and bored. “Lord Arcturus Mancipo has tried to harm the royal family. He is to be stripped of his title and condemned to spend the rest of his life in Bevelle, so that he might one day repent and realize the error of his ways.” And then he turned to Cor, rather pointedly, and said: “He’s not to take his own life, before this, even if it seems doubtful that he’d have the courage for it. Do not give him a chance to grow it.” 

And Cor realized, with trepidation, he was being given the chance to personally inflict suffering on someone he’d disliked for decades. He’d always thought himself above that kind of petty satisfaction. 

And yet. 

“Is it treason to remove the stains on the King’s legacy? Stains that exist only out of the King’s flawed weakness?” Mancipo snarled, and did not, in fact, looked like someone willing to take punishment lying down. 

“My son is not a stain on my legacy,” Regis said, and the entire room trembled with the edge of magic curling in his voice. 

“The son of a common whore!” Mancipo snarled right back, like a feral beast lashing out right before the end, and it took Cor very conscious effort to restrain himself because Regis had already commanded him to stand down and given sentence for Mancipo’s crimes. 

“My _wife_ is not a stain on my legacy,” Regis said, much quieter than Mancipo, and yet impossibly louder than him. “The state of my Court, however. The true caliber of my Lords, however. The integrity of my Advisers, _however_. That is much I will have to ponder, before I can say for certain.” 

Cor did not take pleasure in the suffering of others, as a rule. He knew indulging on self-righteousness seldomly ended well, for someone who made murder his primary job. But murder was no longer his primary job, so he reckoned he could dwell on it, fangs bared at anyone who cared to look, as he dragged a screaming madman away from Regis’ throne room and threw him into the deepest, emptiest cell he could find. 

* * *

“That’s new,” Cor mused, watching the streaks of bright blue running through Prompto’s hair with an arched eyebrow. 

Prompto pouted. Visibly. 

“They were out of green dye,” he explained, shuffling to the side so Cor could sit next to him on the steps and they could watch the sunrise properly. “I mean, there was the yellow-ish green. But it looks like barf and who the heck wants barf-hair?” He wrinkled his nose and shrugged. “So blue it was.” 

Cor did not point out that he could also not dye his hair at all. He thought it, certainly, if nothing else because the whole production seemed entirely unpleasant to him, from smell to upkeep. But it was one of the tools Prompto had chosen to sort himself after everything he’d gone through, and neither Cor nor Nyx were in any particular hurry to take it away from him. He wasn’t hurting himself, and he wasn’t hurting anyone else, and if Cor thought it was a terribly cumbersome production, all he had to do was not dye his own hair in solidarity. 

“Blue is good,” Cor said, with the pragmatic air of an ancient truth, and Prompto snorted. Cor turned back to the coffee he was pouring. “How’s it going, with Monica?” 

“Uh, she’s nuts?” Prompto wrinkled his nose in a decidedly familiar way and gave Cor a solemn look when he realized Cor was smirking at him for his troubles. “She wants me to deadlift a hundred and fifty pounds.” He stared pointedly at Cor, seemingly waiting for a reaction he didn’t get, because he added: “I _weigh_ a hundred and fifty pounds,” he snorted, rubbing a hand over his face. “And I’m pretty sure at least sixty of those are pure anxiety, Dad.” 

Cor’s reflexes were honed by years and years of battle. He was fast, and he was precise, and above all, he was deadly. 

The mug still slipped between his fingers when he startled, and he ended up staring at the broken mug scattered all over the floor, rather than see the look on Prompto’s face at the loud crash. 

“I’m so-“ 

“It’s fine,” Cor said, vaguely hoarse, and reached out for another mug, neatly sidestepping the mess at his feet. 

“It was your favorite mug,” Prompto insisted, wide-eyed, and Cor realized his eyes looked greener than purple, with the flecks of it framing his face. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Cor insisted, serving the new one on reflex, eyes pinned on Prompto and the interesting gauntlet of emotions cycling through his face. 

“I’m forty percent anxiety,” Prompto muttered, as they sat down the steps and he inched his way until he was leaning against Cor’s side, huddled under one of Cor’s arms. “That means I get to cry forty percent of the time.” 

“I mean,” Cor said, resting his chin atop his son’s head, “so long as the math’s consistent.” 

When Nyx came downstairs from his morning nap and found their son sniffling into Cor’s side and a cooling mess on the kitchen floor, all it took was one look from Cor to keep him from asking about it and going right back upstairs, even if that meant he’d be late for the day. 

They were all late that day, in fact. 

Cor found he did not care. 

* * *

Cor made a grumbling noise in the back of his throat, something like questioning disgust, and then pulled the lollipop out of his mouth to squint suspiciously at it. 

“What?” Nyx asked, looking up from his phone from where he was sitting on the kitchen counter, heels bouncing rhythmically off the wooden doors beneath him. 

“I think this is peach,” Cor grumbled quietly, rubbing his tongue against the roof of his mouth, to try and place the weird flavor. “Or bad orange.” 

“Ah, let me taste?” Nyx asked, and then took it from Cor’s hand when he nodded, before he unceremoniously plopped it into his mouth. “Yeah, that’s. Definitely peach.” He snickered when Cor wrinkled his nose at him. “Which I guess means I’m keeping it, huh.” 

Cor made sure to give him a flat, unamused look when Nyx had the gall to grin at him, gross hard candy abomination caught between his teeth and eyes dancing with amusement. 

“Shut up,” Cor muttered sullenly, and ducked to check the box under the sink for something to sate his cravings that wasn’t artificially flavored like ass. 

“I didn’t even say it!” Nyx teased, eyebrows arched and feet swinging innocently. “I feel if you’re going to tell me to stuff it, I should at least get to say it.” He shrugged in the face of Cor’s glare, and then nodded over to the cabinet by the corner. “I suppose you don’t want me to tell you there’s leftovers from Iris’ birthday in the top drawer. The same place you keep all your terrible life choices, really.” 

“Sugar is not going to kill me,” Cor muttered rebelliously, even as he dug out a chocolate bar from that drawer. 

“Probably not,” Nyx conceded with a smirk, “but you’re definitely giving it a fighting chance.” 

“I’m gracious like that,” Cor retorted, shrugging, “I like to give all contenders a fair chance.” 

“As someone who’s been getting his ass handed to him every six months, on the dot, in front of a large betting audience, I feel this is news to me,” Nyx said, not quite grumping, before he grinned. “So I want you to stick around for a few years longer, you ass, I’m entitled to nag.” 

Cor missed his queue for a rebuttal entirely, and instead watched Nyx for a moment, perched atop the counter, phone in one hand and horrid monstrosity of artificial flavored lies in the other, looking relaxed and comfortable, despite the political upheaval of the past few weeks and the fact Prompto’s newest declaration of independence and self-identity happened to be shacking up with Gladio of all people, and the fact Nyx had found out barely a few days back, by walking in on them abusing the couch in ways Nyx felt only him and Cor were entitled to. Cor didn’t allow his brain to go off on a tangent though, about the fact his children had a terrible habit of choosing very poor choice of locale for their escapades, flashing back to Aranea and her ill-advised romp with Luche on the hood of his own damn car. 

“How long?” He asked, instead, because the matter at hand was far more interesting and frankly less nightmare inducing than the realization their kids were old enough to have sex lives of their own, now. “Do you want me around, I mean. How long?” 

Nyx tilted his head to the side, bird like and graceful in that careless way of his, and smiled wryly, making the expression lines on his face show more prominently, because he too wasn’t twenty anymore, and he was closer to forty than he liked to admit, these days. 

“I don’t know,” he said, laughing, “as long as you’ll have me, I guess.” 

“Could be a long time, you realize,” Cor said, walking over to lean in and kiss the smile on Nyx’s lips, purely because he felt like it. “Could be forever, for all you know.” 

“Has a nice ring to it, forever,” Nyx replied, grinning still, as he wrapped his arms around Cor’s shoulders and tugged him closer. “Nicer than diabetes, anyway.” 

Cor laughed at that, because Nyx never knew when to drop a line of attack, but also because there was an idea brewing now, in the back of his head, and he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. 

Yet. 

* * *

Cor’s relationship with the Galahdian community in Insomnia was complicated to say the least. 

Nominally… well, a little bit more than nominally, which was sort of the heart of the problem, he was part of it. He’d walked into the Storm and gotten a single dark blue bead in acknowledgement to that, which had hung from the hilt of his sword since then. They knew him, around Little Galahd. They greeted him – stiff and nervous and sometimes shyly, but a greeting nonetheless – and not only recognized but allowed his presence wherever he went. No one stopped him, no matter where he went, but he still felt them looking. Not judging. Just looking. That communal eye that kept track of everyone and made sure to know the where and why and how of just about everything that happened among them. He took part in the rotation watching over children playing in the nearby park – a sacred, hallowed duty that the children in question remained forever oblivious about, it seemed – and he had his own corner to brood in, during very long, tedious screaming matches that comprised two thirds of the assembly meetings that Nyx very studiously did not attend. He paid his dues, to the communal fund, as it was well and proper, and sometimes found himself carrying groceries for very cranky, bossy old people who felt entitled to time and labor from anyone half their age, purely because they were twice their age and the beads in their braids reflected that. 

He wasn’t feared, in Little Galahd. 

Cor did not know how to feel about that. He’d always been feared. He’d never really cared, either. Or at least he’d always seen it as a benefit, rather than a downside. Fear afforded him privacy and authority and the freedom to do precisely what he wanted to do, safe in the knowledge no one was quite suicidal enough to object. And yet, he also clung to those people who refused to take him at face value and saw past the well-earned horrors of his reputation. He loved none more than those who looked at him without a trace of fear. But they had always been few and far in between: Regis and Clarus, Aulea and Mors, Lyra and Lucius, Wes and Cid. 

And then, there’d been Nyx. 

Cor had not realized it, then, but Nyx came with Galahd, clinging to his belt, like Prompto used to, when he was seven and throwing a tantrum. And quite suddenly there were more than a few people, who did not fear him. It was confusing. After all, he didn’t love them. Not quite. Not like he loved his own and set the grid of boundaries around them, forever trying his best to simultaneously keep them safe, and keep them from realizing he was doing it. But they didn’t fear him, and he liked that. 

He liked them, even. 

And yet he was very much not Galahdian. He knew himself far too Lucian for that. He didn’t know the stories or the traditions. He thought in terms that were completely foreign to them, and because they did not fear him, they felt no remorse in telling him so. 

Even Pelna wasn’t scared of him anymore. Hadn’t been for years, really. It was just a silly unspoken inside joke they shared, these days. Fifteen years of raising their children in tandem sort of made it expected, but Cor distinctly remember a time where he was sure Pelna being afraid of him was one of those constants that kept his world in place: the world was round, the Crystal could go fuck itself, Pelna Khara was terrified of him. 

And yet. 

“You can’t take it back,” Pelna said, sitting on the edge of the one balcony in the apartment, which was also the only place Amira allowed him to actually smoke, “is the thing.” 

Not that he wasn’t smoking, really, it was mostly Cor who smoked and Pelna who politely didn’t point it out. 

“I’m aware,” Cor replied, looking down at the street and the people settling in for the night, tables and chairs. 

Cor had only ever seen that kind of careless trust in others, getting drunk and loud and just… visibly sharing space, among hunters. But hunters did it because if you did not trust your partners, you were as good as dead anyway. Or you ended up like Cor, running alone and vicious. Galahdians just… built spaces for themselves out of nowhere. They fought and jeered and laughed, and the streets were always lively, as soon as the sun went down. 

“It’s different, though,” Pelna insisted, dragging Cor back to the conversation at hand, and away from his twisty musings on Galahd and its people. “Being aware and just. Knowing. You can’t take it back, once you try. And if it doesn’t go the way you think it will, you have to live with that, too.” Pelna frowned. “And sometimes it really doesn’t work out the way you hoped for. That’s just… how it goes. You have to be ready for that, before you try.” 

“I notice you’re not actually telling me _not_ to try,” Cor said, lips twitching faintly into a smirk. 

Pelna smiled, because Pelna was the sort of person for whom smiles came easily. Not grins or smirks or anything inherently sharper. Smiles. Cor rather liked him for it. 

“If I thought you shouldn’t try, we wouldn’t be having this conversation at all.” 

Cor snorted, and conceded the point. 

* * *


	22. year xvii [nyx]

* * *

**_year xvii [nyx]_**

* * *

Aranea looked at Nyx through the stripes of silver from her eye cover, couched behind a rock some twenty feet away. She was wearing the full uniform for once, though Nyx was keenly aware it was probably only at Luche’s behest – bitching – considering he had some of his most promising kids with him. 

In the plains, their mark snorted loudly, massive hooves stomping into the ground. Summer had not been as green as it could have been, and though naturally herbivores, Kujatas could… adapt. The problem was they seldom stopped, once they started, because apparently live prey was much more filling than the endless meadows of Duscae. Nyx disliked hunting the massive, horned giants, if nothing else because he was Galahdian, and he still remembered the old wisdom from the isles: fear the grass eaters, they know best the cost of survival. Coeurls might have the most tools to kill a man with, but like most predators, they rarely hunted for sport and there were far more nutritious options available to them, than the average Galahdian. No, the true terror of the hunter was the creatures used to being hunted, because they fought back with the knowledge that their lives were at stake in that fight. 

Aranea was still looking at him, waiting. 

She wasn’t docile, Cor’s daughter – _his_ daughter. She wasn’t very prudent or very willing to compromise. She said what she thought, almost as soon as she thought of it, and felt entirely willing to defend those thoughts, pretty much always. She was sly and cunning and good at making people follow her lead, even when she confessed to Nyx sometimes, that she was just making it up as she went along. She had the same shapeless, vicious edge to her, that Cor did, like hers had been molded in the image of his. Nyx loved them both, dearly, his partner and their daughter, but he never quite forgot the fact her legend was just starting, whereas Cor’s served as her model. 

But she respected the hierarchy of the Kingsglaive, since she’d come back to take her place in it. She respected it with the knowledge of someone who understood, now, what it meant to lead men of her own, and be responsible for their lives. And so, in the field, she looked at Nyx, and waited for him to let her do what she knew best. 

Nyx let out a slow, calm breath, and nodded sharply. 

“Fall back under the shield,” he said into the earpiece, watching as Aranea stretched to look over her cover and size up her mark. “Now.” 

Luche was already casting, by the time the rest of the squad warped in to huddle beneath the thick, milky-white barrier, the only thing they knew strong enough to resist what was coming next. 

Nyx lingered out for a moment, watching Aranea throw her knife straight at their prey, and then start the spiral upwards, once she was sure the Kujata knew she was coming. It made sure it wouldn’t rampage where it shouldn’t, and that it didn’t put undue strain on Luche’s shield. 

Nyx watched her until she reached the apex of her spiral, streaks of blue after images tracing her path, and ducked beneath cover the moment she grasped not a small knife, but the familiar weight of a long, tip-heavy lance. He knew what came next, he didn’t need to see it. He was also not sure he could survive it, if he did. He huddled with the others and imagined the spark of magic at the tip of her lance, bursting into a mad screech of magic as she dropped. 

They felt it, when she landed. 

Luche swore just as their ears rang hollow with the explosion, heat and magic slamming into the barrier and threatening to make it snap under their weight. But Luche’s shields always held, and that was Nyx’s rationale to keep him and Aranea together, in the field, despite Libertus’ snide grumping about being willing to disown Nyx if Luche fucking Lazarus ended up marrying into their family. Cor laughed at him, when he brought it up, but Nyx hadn’t decided if that was a good or a bad thing yet. He was nowhere near as good as Cor was, at getting into Aranea’s head, so he worried. Sometimes. Just a little. 

When Luche lowered the shield, there was a crater the size of a football field on the plains, sunken some good ten feet into the rocky ground below the grasslands, and Aranea was standing in the center of it, lance propped up her shoulder with the air of someone who was just starting to warm up. 

There was approximately three grams of dust left, of the feral Kujata they had been contracted to hunt. Usually, Dave demanded trophies to corroborate the hunts. But Dave knew better, than to expect Aranea Highwind to leave behind enough to identify her targets. One didn’t contract the Dragon of Keycatrich, and not expected that sort of result. 

“Ta-da,” she deadpanned, waving one hand slowly, as if to punctuate the ridiculousness of the gesture. 

“You _fucker_ ,” Luche was already arguing, stomping over to where she is, looking eminently put out. “You didn’t _tell_ me you were going to use frost.” 

“Wouldn’t want you to get bored, though,” Aranea sneered right back and dodged when he clawed at her throat as if to strangle her. “Don’t tell me you struggled with just that?” 

Nyx ignored them, since he was used to their bickering by then – most of the senior Kingsglaive were, though most had also long given up trying to make heads or tails of that particular friendship, beyond the certainty that standing in its way was a good way to end up dead – and focused on his younger recruits instead. They had magic of their own, of course, but they were looking at Aranea – cowl pulled back to show her hair, and most importantly, the beads braided into it – with an edge of hero worship. 

Nyx found amusement in that, though he remained, as ever, blissfully unaware that was the exact same look three fourths of the Galahdians in Insomnia gave him, on a daily basis. 

* * *

“Your daughter has reached the point she could feasibly tack on a landscaping fee to her jobs,” Nyx said, walking out of the bathroom as he toweled his hair dry. “Crowe was delighted.” 

Cor, sitting up against the headboard, reading the doorstopper of the month, and glasses perching precariously on the tip of his nose, blinked at him slowly, and smirked. 

“Crowe _is_ delightful,” he said, because he enjoyed Crowe’s brand of pandemonium and Nyx still lived in regret of ever letting them meet, though not as much as the fact he did not predict the fact they would get along so well. “Your son found out we’re not married.” 

Nyx dropped the towel to his shoulders and blinked. That he hadn’t been expecting. 

“What do you mean _found out_?” Nyx asked, eyebrows arched. “We’ve been not married for the seventeen years he’s been alive.” 

“True,” Cor said, folding his book on his stomach as he watched Nyx finish drying himself and slipping on a pair of sleeping pants. “But he didn’t know that until Monica had him doing paperwork drills and he realized there was no marriage certificate to add to the file.” 

“You sound amused by that,” Nyx said suspiciously, squinting at Cor as he sat on the corner of the bed and went back to toweling his hair furiously. 

“He’s been an absolute shit about it all week,” Cor replied, snickering. Nyx had to sigh in resignation, because seventeen years later, and Cor still didn’t know how to not enable Prompto’s worst ideas. It was like a compulsion at this point, he was sure. “He’s committed to the bit, if nothing else.” 

“You love it when he sasses you,” Nyx said, not managing to sound as accusing as he probably should have. “You always have.” 

“Mmm,” Cor said, which wasn’t so much a word as a very specific noise he made – Nyx had never met anyone who made anything close to that, something between a gurgle and a hum in the back of his throat – which meant he was not about to deny any accusations thrown at him, but that he did not exactly appreciate them. “I was thinking about it.” 

“What about?” Nyx asked, because Cor’s tone had changed, and so he was probably three trains of thought away from where he’d started, and despite it all, Nyx couldn’t actually read his mind. 

Even if it felt like it, sometimes. 

“Marrying you,” Cor said, and reminded Nyx that sometimes was not the same as always. 

He laughed, startled. 

“Why?” He asked, running fingers through his hair, “tax returns that shitty this year?” 

But then Nyx made the mistake to look at Cor, and realized Cor was not grinning back. 

“No,” Cor said, and Nyx was reminded just how small and helpless Cor could make people feel, when he looked at them that intensely. 

Nyx stayed where he was, as Cor shuffled the book to the side, along with the glasses, and then inched his way closer. His eyes remained on Nyx’s as he did, holding steady even as Nyx felt his insides twitch and the hair in the back of his neck stand on end. 

“Cor,” Nyx began, and then stopped, because Cor had reached out for his face, tugging him closer until he could kiss him. 

Nyx kissed back, because he always did, and because it gave him time to try and find his footing, again. And then Cor went and kicked him back into shifting sands when he said: 

“Marry me.” 

Nyx laughed again. He always laughed, when he was too terrified to wrestle words under control. He laughed and clung, and floundered inside his mind when Cor kissed him again. 

“Just like that?” Nyx asked, when he could string words coherently again, and very carefully did not acknowledge the fact his voice had gone hoarse, tumbling down somewhere in the back of his throat, “thought you had to get down on one knee and stuff.” 

“No,” Cor said, fingers tangled down the tips of Nyx’s hair, eyes clear and poignant. “Not for this.” 

And then it clicked, somewhere in the sudden, vast emptiness of Nyx’s mind, and the nervous laughter died before it could really crawl up his throat. 

“Oh,” he said, quiet, and made even smaller by the way Cor’s eyes looked clear from up-close. “You’re barely even gray.” 

“Don’t care,” Cor said softly, like he knew exactly how fragile Nyx felt, right then and there. “Do you?” 

Nyx knew he didn’t. He couldn’t quite grasp Cor becoming someone he didn’t love, no matter how many more years they had together, but that wasn’t the point. The point was in fact so massively shapeless, that he couldn’t quite grasp it. 

“It doesn’t work like that,” he croaked, wishing dearly Cor would stop playing with his hair, winding the wet strands around his fingers like he did before helping Nyx braid back the beads into place. “It’s not… it’s not just saying _I do_ and signing more paperwork. It’s-” 

“I know,” Cor said, voice even in a way that made Nyx keenly jealous with how not freaked out he sounded. 

Like he’d thought of this, for a while. Like he’d sat down and prepared and weighed the consequences, for all he was unceremoniously dropping that sort of bomb on Nyx and leaving him breathless with the meaning of it. 

“You do, don’t you?” Nyx whispered, and realized he believed him. “I…” 

“Think about it,” Cor said, with that same stupid stubbornness of his, like he’d decided on a course of action and he was ready to follow it to its inevitable conclusion. “Take your time.” 

Nyx laughed and kissed him and very pointedly did not strangle him for it. 

Even if he sort of, kind of really deserved it. 

* * *

“What was he like?” Nyx asked suddenly, watching Sylva sitting on the grass, hand-feeding her monstrous murderbirds like they were not thirty-five pounds of evil incarnate. “Your husband,” he clarified, when she looked up at him in surprise. “What was he like?” 

“Well, that came out of nowhere,” she said, sitting back to look at him properly, fingers absently scratching the soft feathers presented to them. 

“Sorry,” Nyx said, laughing awkwardly as he shook his head. “Forget about it. It’s been a weird couple of days.” 

“I’d surmised as much when you decided to assign yourself guard duty, Commander,” Sylva said dryly, eyebrows arched. “We’re friends, Nyx. You don’t need excuses to talk to me, if you want to.” 

“It’s alright,” he replied, face burning slightly. “I’m being stupid.” 

“Undoubtedly,” she said, remorseless and matter-of-fact, and he was choking on a snort before he could catch himself. “But you’ve always had the talent to sell that as charm, regardless. I’ve always thought it was one of your many virtues.” 

Nyx squinted at her somewhat, unsure if he should take the compliment or not. Sylva laughed and threw a handful of grains at the grass, further away, and smiled as the flock of massive birds moved over to peck it clean. 

“I’m a Queen, Nyx,” Sylva said, looking at him with the same sort of softness she usually reserved for her children. “My husband was the sort of man deemed suitable to be Prince Consort. He was thirty-two years my senior, the day of our wedding. He chose Ravus’ name and sneered when I chose Luna’s. He was well read and better spoken, conscious of his place and its importance, and I mourned him for two years as per decorum, when he died.” 

“But you didn’t love him,” Nyx ventured out, keenly aware that was not the sort of thing one was meant to tell a Queen, much less a holy one like the Oracle. 

Sylva laughed. 

“Not romantically, no,” she said, smile wry, “but he loved Tenebrae, just as much as I did. There’s a certain kind of love, in loving the same things.” She shrugged and gave him a conspiratorial look. “Besides, a Queen needn’t love her husband. Loyalty is all that matters.” 

Nyx thought of Lucis’ erstwhile Queen, of all the disjointed, contradictory bits of her he knew. The differences between the pages that history would reserve for her memory, as the mother of the future King, and the sharp, vicious stories Cor could tell about her, full of poisonous love that never failed to make Nyx feel like drowning in it. 

“I’ll never understand it,” Nyx said, long after the silence had gone from awkward to politely respectful, digging his fingers into the damp grass. “The idea people marry and don’t mean it, when they do.” 

“What’s it like?” Sylva asked, head tilted to the side. “In Galahd?” 

“What else?” Nyx laughed, rubbing a hand on his face. “A gamble.” 

* * *

It took him entirely too long to find his way to the Queen’s tomb. 

He’d only ever been there once, before, sitting with Cor one chilly autumn afternoon, listening to him talk about the sister he absolutely never had. Nyx wished he’d paid more attention to the road Cor had taken, particularly after two hours wandering near aimlessly in search of the small, quiet cemetery. He still found it unbearably creepy, to be honest, the whole notion of just. Plopping corpses back into the ground wholesale, and then building stuff on top, just so everyone knew there was definitely a human decomposing six feet under. 

But, he supposed, as he threw out the dried flowers on the little granite pots at each side of the slab and refilled them with clear water to chase away the greenish muck, it worked in his favor, this time. It felt better to have this conversation here, than in front of the only painting of the Queen he’d ever been able to find, hanging right on the wall of the King’s personal office. Cor was in that painting, too, Nyx remembered, as he focused on uprooting weeds trying to make a home for themselves on the Queen’s tomb and tried to figure out what he wanted to say. In that painting, the Queen sat on an ornate armchair, expression borderline bored, while Cor stood behind her, forever watching her back. 

“My mother loved these,” Nyx said, at long last, after double checking there was absolutely no one else in sight to hear him say it and went about sliding the flowers he’d brought with him, one by one, into the pots. “Less fancy than Insomnian roses, but… I don’t know. From what Cor’s said, you’d have liked that, I think.” 

Galahdian wild roses were rare in Insomnia. There were exactly fifteen flowering bushes that Nyx knew of, and they were all different colors. As a result, the flowers he’d ended up bargaining for were a terribly mismatch bunch of reds and yellows and whites and blues. Insomnian roses had rows upon rows of petals, all bunched up together until they looked shapeless, and they were nearly scentless. The roses Nyx had bought had a single row of vibrantly colored petals, instead, and carried a very distinct aroma. 

“He loves you, you know?” He said, and then, after a moment, very awkwardly lowered himself to sit on the driest corner of the slab. It felt weird, but not as weird as just… standing there. Talking. To the dead. “He’s been loving you for so long I don’t think he’ll ever stop. I don’t… want him to, either. He can love you and he can love me, and it’s fine. It’s fine.” 

Because that was the truth of it. It was one of those misshapen truths that sat pointed and awkward in his gut, ever since he’d first stumbled on it, but it didn’t make it any less true. It was also sort of the heart of the knot in his stomach about this. Because he knew Cor loved him. He knew. It was one of the solid foundations of his life. But he knew Cor loved the Queen, too. In present tense, despite the years. It was just too much of who he was, and Nyx knew Cor would not be himself, if he lost that. And Nyx had always loved him the way he was, too, including the bits that loved the Queen. He’d always felt the indents in places and having a name and a story to go with them was… more than he’d ever thought he’d get. 

He’d be happy, to go on the way they had so far. He liked the life they’d built, over the years. It wasn’t the sort of life he’d ever thought he’d get, but he valued it for what it was. There were indents, in Cor, where he fit in. And he was sure there were indents in him, where Cor fit in. That sort of happened with time. That was what it meant to live the way they did, letting themselves fall into place together. And it was good, all of it. Even the pieces that drove him nuts, sometimes. Even the pieces that hurt. It was good, the sum of it, when he put it on the scale and weighed in his feelings and his place in the world. It was _good_. 

But deep down, so far down he hoped Cor would never learn to see it, he’d never let himself think of it as it ever growing to be more. Not after the first time Cor brought him here and gave him a name and a story and explained why there were parts of him that felt like they’d been carved out with a knife. Nyx was too Galahdian to think of it any other way. 

But Cor had asked, in the end. 

And he’d meant it, when he’d asked. He’d offered Nyx the one thing Nyx had been sure was not his to have. And the truly terrifying thing was that impulse he’d felt, to take the leap blindly. 

“I keep wondering what you’d give him,” Nyx confessed, resisting the urge to reach out and touch the sword jutting out of the slab, “if he’d asked you.” 

Which was ridiculous, of course. Because if Cor had asked her, she’d have said yes. And because they were both Lucian idiots without a clue, that would have been it. But he couldn’t not think about it, now that the thought was stuck in his head. And if he had to be honest, it was because he was afraid of the first thing that had come to mind, when he thought about what he was going to offer. 

If he was going to offer something. 

Which he hadn’t said, yet. 

Yet. 

* * *

“It can’t be here,” Nyx told Cor one morning, about two weeks after the stupid, stupid idiot had thrown his entire life into disarray. “Under the Wall, I mean.” 

Prompto was out and about already, but there was something ridiculously mundane and comfortable in the fact they could take their time clearing out breakfast. It was one of those tiny things they did, on the weekends. When there wasn’t anything more pressing or crucial on the line than maybe going grocery shopping and sorting out laundry. The routine Nyx had always found so weirdly comforting felt… novel, somehow. 

It took Cor a moment, to realize what he meant, and the fact he caught on to it, despite Nyx’s sudden off-topic meandering into it, made Nyx’s insides twitch. 

“Makes sense,” Cor replied, briefly looking up from the dishes he was washing, before shrugging. “Got anywhere in mind?” 

Nyx opened his mouth to say something noncommittal and probably idiotic, and instead what came out, knee-jerk sentimental, was: 

“Longwythe.” Nyx felt his face heat up when he saw the corner of Cor’s lip twitch. “Shut up.” 

“When?” Cor asked instead, turning back to his dishes to save Nyx the indignity of watching him smile in amusement. 

Nyx did not scream or break down into hysterical laughter. 

“Week before the end of the month, maybe?” He said instead, with as much composure as he could manage, like they were making last minute adjustment to their usual dates and not… 

“Works for me,” Cor replied, drying his hands as he finished his task, as unruffled as ever. 

Nyx indulged in the rather meanspirited thought that he was probably freaking out as much as he was. Probably. Cor was just better at keeping a straight face. 

Probably. 

“It’s a date then,” Nyx blurted out, and then hissed defensively, when Cor kissed him. 

Not that he didn’t kiss back, anyway. It was just. The principle of the whole thing. 

Shit. 

* * *

When in doubt – or when he was feeling frankly masochistic – Nyx knew the one person he could turn to for advice, even if it was for the sake of having something to be contrary about. It was a delicate thing, though, so he tried to bring it up as carefully as he could. If nothing else because having a date looming over his head and the sheer fucking idiocy he was about three fourths convinced to commit were doing a number on his sanity. 

Libertus already knew. 

Libertus _knew_. Nyx took a moment to be histrionic in the depths of his own soul, and then demanded answers in a rational, controlled manner. 

“Cor Leonis asks about how _we_ go about getting married,” he said, giving Nyx the sort of pitying look he usually reserved for idiots asking stupid questions, “why the hell would he if not because he wanted to marry you?” 

Nyx spluttered eloquently and made vague gestures with his hands. Libertus snorted. 

“Yes, he knows what he’s asking,” Libertus said, one eyebrow arched rather un-sympathetically. “Yes, we made sure he knew what he was asking. He’s been talking over it with Pelna for months now.” 

“Pelna is terrified of Cor,” Nyx said, almost on reflex, because what else could he say? 

The pitying look was back, with a vengeance. 

“If you don’t want to do this,” Libertus said, expression oddly, painfully kind, “tell him you don’t want to do this.” 

And there, at the height of pure masochism, facing the one person it hurt to lie to, much more than he could stand, Nyx swallowed hard and felt very, very small. 

“I do,” he whispered, fingers shaking, and let himself be pulled into a tight, tight hug, “is the thing.” 

Nyx was sure there were dozens of things Libertus would like to tell him, at that moment. Libertus never censored himself around him, after all. They trusted each other with the best and the worst bits of themselves, safe in the knowledge they had each other’s back. He didn’t need to watch his words around his brother, and neither did he around him. If they had to fight, they would fight. If they had to argue, they would argue, and no matter how angry they got, they were both sure they’d be fine, in the end. 

“But what if he doesn’t want to go through with it,” Nyx admitted, curled up in Libertus’ couch, very carefully not looking at Libertus’ face as he spoke, “once he _knows_?” 

Once upon a time, when Nyx first moved into Cor’s apartment and Prompto could not be reasonably trusted not to shove every choke hazard in a five-mile radius down his throat, Libertus liked to snark at Nyx, about his choice of home. Once he was sure that Nyx would not be moving out of the apartment and back onto Libertus couch, irascible toddler or not, Libertus had then moved on to subtly and overly offer to murder Cor if necessary. It’d been a running gag, for many years, that, Nyx remembered clearly. At least until something happened – something neither Cor nor Libertus felt like sharing – and Libertus started inviting Cor to sit at his table and eat his food. They went out, now, every other week, to drink ridiculous contraptions Cor insisted were called beer, and treated each other like actual friends. 

Libertus did not promise Nyx to murder Cor. Not because he was afraid of him, or that he doubted his own ability to do it, but because he thought it wasn’t what Nyx needed to hear. 

“He will,” he said instead, and Nyx wanted nothing more than to believe him. 

* * *

The sensible thing would have been to set up camp in the Three Valleys, with Longwythe in the background. Instead Cor took him to a haven close to the base to the peak, one that hunters avoided most of the time because one needed to cross voretooth breeding ground to reach it. Nyx appreciated the isolation, because it meant only Cor and the sky would hear what he had to say. 

Cor told him about Mors, as they set up a tarp to provide shade and cover from the elements, disjointed little stories without a concrete point to them, except for the fact they were true. Nyx listened to his voice, to the soft, reverent bits and the sharp, frustrated bits, and by the time they were sitting in the shade, staring at the mountain, Cor had a strange, far-off look to his features. 

“I wasn’t there,” he said, one leg folded up, so he could rest his arm on his knee, “when he died. He didn’t want me there. Said my place was with Regis, from then on. Which… was probably true, all things considered. But I wish I hadn’t listened. I never really listened to him, and I think he liked that, deep down. So, I don’t know why I decided to obey, the one time it actually mattered that I didn’t.” 

“I wasn’t there either, when my fathers died,” Nyx admitted. “I think I joined the army because I thought that’d make up for it. I knew it was a terrible, stupid thing I was doing, but I reckoned I deserved whatever came out of it.” 

Cor made a pensive sound in the back of his throat and then tugged him over, to press his mouth against Nyx’s temple. Then he told him, about the Crag, and what was down there, and why exactly he’d gone looking, in the first place. 

Nyx told him about the first time he’d sunk a kukri under imperial armor and found flesh and bone, instead of metal scraps beneath. 

Cor told him about the blaze he’d started, on his last night on Insomnia, just to make sure he wouldn’t have anywhere to run away to, once he marched out to join the war. 

Nyx told him about the coeurl he’d run into, the first time he’d been trusted to do more than pass information across the frontlines, about the burn of lightning on his skin and the vague, terrified certainty he was going to die; the realization that he hadn’t and that, despite it all, he’d been glad he hadn’t. 

Cor talked about Regis and Weskham, about Cid and Sylvia, about Clarus and Anemone. He talked about weddings and promises and children and the unending parade of heartbreak he’d always told himself was better to avoid, if only for the sake of not admitting to the unrelenting force of weddings and promises and children and the bottomless pit of heartbreak he’d doomed himself to, loving Aulea. He talked about Lyra, too. About Monica. About friends he confessed couldn’t remember the name of, anymore, or maybe never knew at all, and why he still thought of them, despite the years. Some of his stories, Nyx already knew, barebones if not the meat of it. The actual relevance of it. 

Nyx talked about Galahd, about villages that were really just one house, endlessly growing and shrinking, in time with the people who came and left. He talked about the war and how it’d felt, regardless of how hard it had actually been. He talked about stories he’d heard, growing up, about plants and herbs and what little he’d been taught before his mother told him he was not fit to heal. He’d never told anyone, how angry that had made him. How small he’d felt. 

He talked and talked and talked, as long as he could, painting the contours all around the one story he knew needed telling and still sat pointed and toxic, caught somewhere below his throat. 

“You can’t tell him this,” Nyx said, long after the sun had gone down, curled up against Cor’s side, staring at the stars creating a halo around the peak. “Ever.” 

It was a given, of course, that nothing said between them, since the rite began, could be repeated outside. Nyx knew that. Knew that Cor knew it, too. Still, he wrapped his hands around a mug of hot tea and refused to look at Cor’s face. 

“Tredd doesn’t remember how he got out of Galahd,” Nyx said, hoarse. “He’s just… missing that entire year. It’s not even rare, that. It was a shitty year and a lot of people just straight up forgot about it. They’re better off, not remembering.” 

Cor waited and waited and when it seemed clear Nyx couldn’t go on without acknowledgement, he let an arm fall around Nyx’s shoulders and slide down until it was curled around his waist. 

“But you do remember.” 

“I do,” Nyx replied, nodding. “He was eight years old, then. My sister never told me where she found him, she just shoved him into a cart with the others.” 

He expected himself to fall back, at the last moment. To pull away and keep his secrets to himself. It would end the ritual, of course. And even if it did, he didn’t think Cor would hate him for it. They could still turn back. They could go back to what they’d been so far, which was good and comfortable and almost toothless these days. 

Cor wouldn’t hate him, if he didn’t speak. 

But this was the one truth, sharp and vicious and still bleeding, even now. 

His truth. 

Nyx finished his tea and stood up, pulling away from Cor, to not look at him. 

“There’s a river,” he said, “in Galahd, and the river _is_ Galahd.” He swallowed hard. “You don’t fish from it. You don’t drink from it. You don’t… bleed on it. Not without dire consequences.” Nyx took a deep breath. “I’ve never… I’ve never told anyone this story. Not just because… well, it’s this story, but also because… because if anyone knew, what we did. What I did.” Nyx swallowed hard. “There’s a not insignificant chance they would blame me. Us. For the fact Galahd fell.” 

He was quiet for a moment. He’d never even said that, out loud. It sounded so much worse, when he said it out loud. 

“I’d understand,” Nyx said, abruptly looking over his shoulder, to find Cor still sitting on the ground, waiting, docile, “if you wanted to stop, after this. I’d… not be mad. I won’t be.” 

Nyx swallowed silky spit and felt his stomach twist around in his gut, as if threatening to empty itself on reflex. It wouldn’t be the first time, really, that he threw up all over himself over those memories. There was a reason he just… rejected it. All of it. It wasn’t even his story anymore. Not quite. 

But it was his truth. 

“Nyx,” Cor said, soft, stupidly, annoyingly exactly the tone he needed to hear. 

And then Nyx couldn’t stop the words, all the hateful, painful ones, tumbling out his mouth, feeling like they were trying to knock out his teeth on the way out. 

* * *

Traditionally, Galahdian wedding rites comprised three parts: truth sharing, the gift exchange and the banquet. The first two were done in private, without witnesses, and usually in quick succession. 

Nyx spent the entire day after their truth sharing lying on Cor, listening to him breathe and basking on the feeling of his fingers running up and down his spine. Cor didn’t say anything, because nothing else needed to be said, at that point; he just waited and let Nyx sort out the hollowed out feeling inside his chest. 

Nyx knew they weren’t done yet, though. They’d done the hard part, yes. They had survived the hard part, but there was a gamble waiting, still. There was a chance that things would still go to shit. Because sharing truths was only half of it. Knowing who they were, where they came from and what they carried with them, always. That was only part of it. 

They could still fail each other, in the exchange. They could still find out they didn’t mean the same thing, for one another. That they didn’t see each other the same way. 

Nyx knew that was why Galahdians married old. The older you were, the more time you’d spent together, the better you knew each other. There wasn’t a rule saying they couldn’t try again, of course, if they failed. But Nyx didn’t know a single couple who failed the exchange that went on to try again. It hurt to think about, the idea of losing all they were gambling on this. And yet it was precisely because of it, that they tried in the first place. 

“Okay,” Nyx said, putting away his plate. The sky was darkening again, purples and blues going on black, with stars already dotting the distance. “Okay. I’m ready.” 

He really wasn’t, to be honest. Not when he’d found himself rigging the exchange against himself by choosing the only gift that could only be matched by one specific thing. He’d known it was stupid, when he’d decided on it. Cor would know what it meant, after talking to Pelna. But he’d tried to think of anything else, and nothing seemed like a better choice. 

“Okay,” Cor said, coming to sit by his side, one hand heavy on his shoulder, warm and reassuring. 

There were no vows to declare, no promises to make. Galahdians never made promises, anyway, because promises were fallible. Breakable. 

Nyx took a deep breath and leaped. 

* * *

“You’re ridiculous,” Libertus said, and turned to Crowe for support, because apparently, he couldn’t deal with it on his own. “ _Tell them_ they’re ridiculous.” 

Crowe smiled, eyes bright and dancing. 

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, delighted to the bottom of her soul. 

“Thank you,” Cor said, one arm firmly wrapped around Nyx’s shoulders, smiling behind his drink. 

Libertus made a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat and tilted back his beer. 

“It was the one thing I told you not to do,” Pelna said, staring straight at Cor’s throat with the sort of roundabout fascination that didn’t know whether he should be outraged about it, or not. 

“Mmm,” Cor said, eloquently, and continued to drink at his own pace. 

Every time he swallowed, the bead hanging off his neck moved, pressed as it was against the dip between his collarbones. It matched the dark blue one, hanging looser around Nyx’s neck. 

No one told Nyx anything, of course. Not beyond sincere congratulations. It was expected of him, after all, to be ridiculous and reckless like that. And no one wanted him to gloat, either, that sometimes it was worth it, to bet on abysmal odds. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering about the stories Nyx and Cor share with each other this chapter, check out the series' page for all your side-stories needs.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out on [DW](https://notavodkashot.dreamwidth.org/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/notavodkashot), if you'd like.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The sun is out, the day is new fanart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13151292) by [suarhnir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suarhnir/pseuds/suarhnir)




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